Absent Without Leave
by jeanie2914
Summary: When Neal goes off the grid and commits a high profile crime, he puts Peter on the hot seat with his own department as well as the NYPD. Section Chief Hughes, believing Peter's fondness for his CI has clouded his judgment, benches him. Has Neal really managed to con his handler or is something else going on? Peter is determined to find out the truth. Set season 2.
1. Chapter 1

_If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. **Absent Without Leave** is a little different from anything I've written before, so bear with me and we will see how it goes. Still hurt/comfort, but I've altered Neal's past a bit to fit my storyline. Let me know what you think. :)_

 _I own nothing except the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter One**

"It's Mozzie." Elizabeth had entered the living room with the phone in her hand.

Peter was relaxing on the sofa enjoying the football game. It was one of the rare Saturdays when he had nothing pressing at work, no repairs pressing at home, and nowhere he had to be. Except in his sweats, on his sofa, enjoying the game. Baseball was his favorite but that season had come and gone; he had to make do with the sport at hand. Today, it was the Boston College–Syracuse game. Great college rivalry; great fun to watch.

"What does he want?" A call from Mozzie to his number meant trouble; a call to Elizabeth's number could mean any number of things. Sometimes they even exchanged recipes, but his wife's tone of voice hadn't indicated such an innocuous reason for the call.

"He is checking to see if I want to have dinner with him this afternoon since you and Neal are off on some secret mission this weekend," she said with curiosity. "He thought the two of you were working today."

"Tell him we're not," Peter replied. It had been a hard couple of weeks. White Collar had logged an obscene number of hours with several cases coming together in unison; everyone had earned the weekend off. He hadn't seen or talked, to any of his team since Friday afternoon at five p.m. and that included Neal. "We all have the weekend off."

"I did," Elizabeth informed him, "Mozzie says Neal missed their standing chest match last night, and he isn't answering his phone." She paused, "He thought a case must have come up."

"No case came up," Peter replied impatiently. Neal had stood up him up, and Mozzie was fishing for information. He wanted to say he wasn't Neal's keeper, but the truth of the matter was that he was. "Tell him I don't know what Neal's plans for the evening were, but he didn't step out of his radius, and he was home at eleven fifteen last night when I checked on him."

In addition to checking his email before he went to bed at night, he also checked Neal's location. The same way some people said prayers before bedtime so they could rest well, he verified the whereabouts of Neal Caffrey. At eleven fifteen last night, Neal had been on Riverside Drive.

"Well, that was odd," Elizabeth commented after the call had ended and she returned to the living room.

"And that surprises you?" Peter mused. "Mozzie is odd,"

"Odder than usual," she clarified. "He acted really strange. He went all quiet, told me to disregard his call, and abruptly hung up."

"He's probably annoyed at Neal for standing him up," Peter speculated. "It's been a tough couple of weeks and Neal probably wasn't up to any Mozzie antics. He'll get over it."

"He didn't sound annoyed," Elizabeth commented. "He sounded worried."

"Mozzie isn't only odd he's _paranoid_ as well," Peter reminded her. Still, Mozzie checking with him on the whereabouts of Neal was a bit unusual. With a sigh, he grabbed his cell phone. Better safe than sorry.

"You worried now, too?" Elizabeth asked.

"No," Peter answered, "but I don't want Mozzie's paranoia ruining the rest of my Saturday." Neal might not answer a call from Mozzie, but he would answer a call from Peter; it was an unspoken rule.

"You've reached Neal. Big Brother's watching, so leave a message at your own risk." The call had gone straight to voice mail. His phone was turned off. Again unusual; Neal was always connected.

"You know better than to turn off your phone," Peter growled into the receiver. "Even on a weekend off; call me when you get this."

Peter disconnected the call and put his phone down. He tried to relax and get back into the game but between Mozzie and not being able to reach Neal, he found himself distracted. Finally, with another irritated sigh, he gave in.

"El, could you hand me my computer." He didn't respond to Elizabeth's raised eyebrows as she took his laptop from the dining room table and brought it to him. He sat it on the coffee table in front of him and opened it. Thirty seconds later, he was viewing Neal's location.

"Looks like he's on the terrace." His relief indicated he had been more concerned about Neal's unreachability than he had thought. "Enjoying his day off in peace, Mozzie-free."

"Wasn't worried, huh?" She asked with a smile; she had read him well.

"Well, maybe just a little bit," He admitted. He left the computer open but pushed it aside. "We're talking about Neal, after all. Just when you think you know what he'll do, he changes things up. I guess Mozzie's paranoia can be contagious."

He propped his feet up beside the computer, and leaned back against the sofa and returned to doing the same thing. Enjoying his day off.

Elizabeth sat down on the sofa as well, and ten minutes later broke the silence.

"Something is not right with this, Peter."

He looked at her in question. His team was winning, but she wasn't looking at the television; she was looking at the computer screen. Neal's tracking signal was still on display.

"What?" The signal still showed Neal in his apartment.

"Well," she said, "That little blip that's supposed to be Neal just jumped from one place to another."

"What do you mean?" The blip-that-was-Neal was now in what Peter had formerly determined was the bedroom.

"It was somewhere over here," she pointed at the screen, "and then it just jumped back over to where it is now. Jumped, didn't move from place to place the way it had before."

"Probably just a computer glitch," Peter surmised. The game momentarily forgotten, he began to watch the computer screen. He normally didn't do that; watch Neal's movements so closely. He just checked in. Knowing Neal's general whereabouts was usually enough. It did seem a little odd that at 2:30 in the afternoon, Neal was stationary in his bedroom. Perhaps not so odd, he thought with a blush. The man was entitled to a personal life even though he usually had very little time to fit one in. Having only a two-mile radius when he was on his own time didn't give him a lot of opportunities to visit with any lady friends outside his apartment.

He stayed there for ten minutes before moving to the bathroom. After a few minutes there, he briefly visited the main living area, and then was back on the terrace. After that, Peter determined that Neal had left his apartment and walked to the street outside.

Then, just as Elizabeth had said it did, the blip that was Neal disappeared from the street and reappeared in the bedroom. The minute that happened, he felt his heart skip a beat. Not wanting to jump to any conclusions, he waited. Exactly twenty-nine minutes later, the blip that was Neal, again at the street, suddenly dematerialized and reappeared in the bedroom.

The signal from Neal's tracking device was somehow running in a loop. The likelihood that Neal was in his apartment at all was slim. Mozzie had said that Neal had missed some appointment with him the evening before and if he was indeed in his apartment, no doubt Mozzie would have found him by now.

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Peter had seen last seen Neal. In that amount of time, he could be almost anywhere by now. Be anywhere, and doing anything.

"Dammit, Neal," he said, reaching for his telephone. "What have you done?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Mozzie wasn't sure how he felt about the situation. He was proud of Neal for his ingenuity, for finding a way to break the ties that bound him, but at the same time worried about the consequences that were sure to follow. He was also somewhat hurt that Neal would have put together something of this magnitude without including him. On top of that, he was angry with himself for placing the call to the Burkes. He hope he'd covered but just the hint of impropriety where Neal was concerned was apt to stir the sleeping giant. Burke had said they had the weekend off; Neal was probably counting on that much of a head start. Hopefully his call hadn't changed that.

How to beat the anklet had been an ongoing project from the beginning but lately it hadn't seemed to be as high a priority as it once had been. That worried Mozzie; he was afraid that Neal had become too attached to Agent Burke and was growing comfortable doing his bidding. When he had made that observation, it had angered Neal more than Mozzie had expected it to. Now he realized he might have been totally off the mark. Maybe Neal was working his own plan all along; a plan he'd chosen, for whatever reasons, to keep to himself.

He'd heard Burke say that Neal had been home at eleven fifteen, and he knew for a fact that was not true. He'd let himself into Neal's apartment, helping himself to a bottle of wine, and waited for Neal to arrive. Several hours and a bottle of wine later, resigned to the fact that Neal's partnership with the Federal Government was again infringing upon his weekend, Mozzie had left.

He'd been more irritated than concerned, assuming Neal was in the middle of something that had delayed him and prevented him from calling. Burke did tend to monopolize his time and had said more than once that he basically owned Neal and could demand he work whenever he wanted him to. Week day, week night and week _end_.

He understood Neal's reasons for striking the bargain and the importance of keeping his handler, Peter Burke, pleased. In the beginning, it had been a means to an end. Or more than one end, really. It not only got Neal out of prison, but it offered him an opportunity to find Kate. Neal had used the Suit, but the Suit had also used Neal. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Burke was Neal's ticket out of a cell, but Neal was a way for Burke to boost his career.

After the way the hunt for Kate had ended things had gotten crazy. _Neal_ had gotten crazy. Someone completely opposed to violence had actually gone after a man with the intent of killing him. Mozzie still cringed when he recalled the way he had turned to the Suit for help in that situation. The Suit had been able to stop him but at that point, the relationship could have easily become more trouble than Burke had bargained for. But Burke had found a way to keep Neal out of jail, in his custody, and working with the FBI.

Mozzie had to give the man credit for sticking up for Neal when he could have simply tossed him back into prison. He appreciated that, and he knew that Neal did as well. But it seemed like it had instilled a bit more than gratitude in Neal. Mozzie had been concerned that Neal seemed to want to please Burke more than was necessary to fulfill their arrangement, to somehow win his respect or approval. That, to Mozzie, was a dangerous thing. Peter Burke was an FBI agent. He was all about law and order and following the rules. Neal was, well, he was _Neal._ No matter how much he wanted to be different, it was only a matter of time until he pushed the boundaries further than his handler could overlook. It was his nature. Mozzie feared that time had now arrived.

"Is Neal home?" He asked the maid when he entered. It would simplify things so much if Neal would just be home. No harm no foul.

"I haven't seen him," she replied, "but that doesn't mean anything. Some weekends we don't see hide nor hair of him. He just hibernates."

Neal's personality was complex and at times contradictory. As social as he could be, he was still a very private person. Mozzie had learned to navigate it for the most part. At times, Neal welcomed company; at others, a glass of wine and a paintbrush was all the company he wanted. There was always more going on beneath the surface than one would guess by his appearance. That, in part, was what made him so good at the con.

June, having heard his arrival, appeared from the adjoining room.

"Hello, Mozzie," she said, "It's nice to see you. Is everything okay?"

"I don't know," Mozzie replied truthfully, "I was supposed to meet Neal here last night, and he didn't show. I just wanted to make sure he had gotten home alright."

"I didn't hear him come in," She said, glancing up the stairs towards Neal's apartment. "But I wouldn't have heard him if he came in late. Have you called him?" She asked.

"Several times," Mozzie answered. "He's not picking up." He dialed the number to Neal's disposable cell. There was still no answer. "I think I'll just go up and check if you don't mind."

If the door to Neal's apartment was locked, even though he could still enter if he chose to, Mozzie never did so. He respected that Neal had his reasons. But as a rule, Neal left his door unlocked, thus indicating that he didn't mind his friend letting himself in.

He reached down and checked the knob; it was unlocked. He opened the door as June appeared behind him.

"Neal?" He called, stepping inside. June followed tentatively.

There was no answer; the apartment appeared deserted. With a glance around, June moved into the bedroom. "His bed hasn't been slept in. He must not have come back after he left yesterday afternoon. Have you called Agent Burke?"

"According to the Suit, Neal was here last night."

"Well, he clearly wasn't," she said, glancing around the empty apartment. "Why does he think he was home, did he talk to him?"

"No," Mozzie said, "He checked the tracking data from the anklet, and it said he was here by eleven fifteen last night."

June's eyes widened at that disclosure. "Do you think Neal found a way to get out of it?" she asked, looking around the room with fresh interest. "Could it _be_ here somewhere?"

"Have you seen Bugsy lately?" He'd never forget the time he found Neal's tracker around the neck of June's pug.

"My dog?" She frowned at the question. "He's downstairs, why?"

"Just checking," Mozzie said under his breath. He glanced around the room again. He was sure if Neal had attached his anklet to a Room Rumba he'd have seen it last night. "Did he say where he was going when he left?"

June shook her head. "I didn't talk to him; I saw him through the solarium window. It was just after five, and as his cab was pulling away, another vehicle pulled up. Two men got out, talked to him a minute, and then he left with them."

" _Willingly?"_ Mozzie asked. Neal running was one thing; Neal being taken was something else altogether.

"Well, as far as I know," June replied doubtfully. "I wasn't watching that closely," she explained, "One minute he was talking to them, and then the next time I looked up, the car was driving away, and Neal was gone."

 _And Neal was gone._

"Describe them."

Mozzie listened as June recalled as much about the brief encounter she'd seen through the window as she could. Nondescript suits. Dark glasses even though it was a cloudy day. The Men in Black Neal had left with sounded strikingly similar to Federal Agents. June had drawn the same conclusion at the time even though she hadn't realized it. "I thought it a bit odd for him to turn around and leave again without even coming inside, but I just figured something had come up at the office, and Agent Burke had sent them to get him," she finished.

"They do sound like Feds," Mozzie agreed, "but I'm pretty sure the Suit didn't send them. He thinks Neal was here last night."

"If he didn't send them, why were they here?"

"I don't know, but Federal agents would have access to his anklet," Mozzie said, "and _someone_ is obviously tampering with its data."

"Could they just come and get him like that?" She asked, "Without telling Agent Burke?"

"They can do what they please," Mozzie replied sharply. "They're _Suits_. And since Neal is considered the property of the Federal government, they can do whatever they please with _him_ , too. Just a slight variation on his usual work arrangement."

"No matter what you think about Neal's work arrangement," June had picked up on the bitterness of his statement, "at least when he's working with Agent Burke, you know he's protected. If he's been pulled off by some other agent, who knows what will happen to him."

Mozzie knew very well what could happen when Neal was pulled off by other agents. But something else was bothering him. Federal Agents did have access to his anklet, but Federal agents had the authority to make a call and have it deactivated. And before Neal could be released into the custody of another agent, Peter Burke would have to sign off.

"You know," he said, "there is only one thing more frightening than Neal being taken by Federal Agents."

"What is that?"

"Neal being taken by people _pretending_ to be Federal Agents," Mozzie said. "If some other agency wanted him, Burke would be in the loop. He certainly wouldn't be lounging around his house while they have Neal out doing God knows what. He's too much of a control freak for that."

"Then you need to call him," June said, "and tell him what's going on."

"Once we tell him that the tracking data is wrong," Mozzie warned, "There's no going back. He's going to assume Neal has engineered all this, that he's running. He'll send everyone after him."

"If someone took Neal and is keeping his whereabouts secret, and not allowing him to contact with anyone, something is very wrong. We need for Agent Burke to go after him, don't we?"

"But what if Neal-?" he stopped. What if Neal was running some kind of operation on the side; what if those men were his accomplices? What if he had run?

If Neal had run, Mozzie would be hurt that he hadn't told him his plan, but he would cover for him for as long as he could and keep his mouth shut. But if someone had taken Neal, then his course of action would be completely different. In that instance, the sooner he ran his mouth, the better. If he talked when he shouldn't, he could cost Neal his freedom; if he didn't talk when he should, he could cost Neal his life.

To talk or not to talk, that was the question. Or rather, to call or _not_ to call.

He suddenly remembered; Neal kept his rainy day fund, along with other items he'd need if he had to make a run for it, hidden in a secret compartment in the woodwork of the large ornate mantel. If the items were gone, he'd keep his mouth shut. If they had been left behind, he'd tell Burke everything he knew.

With a glance at June, he moved to the fireplace, his fingers finding the small latch; the door swung open.

If rain had been forecast, Neal hadn't seen the weather report; a stack of bills still occupied the small alcove, along with a manila folder Mozzie assumed was Neal's clean alias. He opened it to make sure everything was there. It was.

He could accept that maybe, just maybe, Neal would plan his exit without telling him. But there was no way he'd blow town and leave his documents and travel money behind.

To call or not to call? The stack of fifties in his hand made his decision.

"Make the call, June."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The first call Peter made was to Neal's number. Again, it went straight to voicemail and he didn't bother leaving a message. The second call he made was to Clinton Jones. After a perfunctory apology for calling on afternoon Saturday, he told him what he needed him to do.

"I need you to get down to the office and track Neal's cell phone," he instructed. "I think it's turned off; I've called it and it goes straight to voicemail."

"He's not supposed to turn off his phone," Clinton commented.

"I know, but you know Neal; sometimes rules become too cumbersome for him. Can you track it?"

"If it's just turned off I can, if the battery is dead, the best I can do it tell you where it was last active." He paused, "Any particular reason you want me to do this?"

Peter always had a reason, and he knew Jones knew that; he was just fishing to see if Peter was willing to share. He was not.

"For now, let's say I'm just curious." Peter didn't want to say what he suspected was going on. Once he said it, it became official: Neal became an escaped felon. He wasn't ready to start that ball rolling. Not yet. Not until he had more information. "I'm on my way down there, too, but I have a stop to make first. And Jones," he paused, "this is just between you and me, okay?"

"Understood, Boss," Jones replied. Peter was sure he did. He expected a comment about their weekend off, but it didn't come.

Peter changed into something more suitable before kissing Elizabeth and leaving the house. His first stop would be Riverside Drive. A part of him was holding on to the hope that Neal would be there, blissfully unaware that something had gone awry with his tracking device. But his gut and the call from Mozzie told him that was highly unlikely. Still, it was the most reasonable place to start.

Peter thought back over the past few days at the office. He prided himself on being able to detect when something was brewing under Neal's often deceptively smooth exterior, but he hadn't sensed anything off. In fact, Neal had seemed remarkably content lately. Maybe that, in itself, should have been warning enough.

Still, it seemed unbelievable that Neal would run now, after everything they'd been through. But if Neal had been planning on running, there would have been hints in his behavior; hints Peter should have picked up on.

He would have been pleased with himself to have come up with a way to beat the tracker, and Peter doubted he could have kept that gleam of pride out of his eyes. There was a certain _cat-who-ate-the-canary_ look that Neal got when he was particularly proud of some accomplishment; Peter hadn't seen it. Also, he knew Neal had grown attached to many aspects of his life in New York, and if he was planning to make an exit from it, he would have experienced both feelings of excitement and feelings of regret.

Neal would know what his disappearance would do to Peter both personally and professionally. If Friday afternoon at five p.m. was the last time Neal ever planned to see or speak to him, that moment would have been a hard for him. Peter knew that without a doubt. There would have been something in his eyes, in his words, that, perhaps not significant at the time, in hindsight Peter would realize was goodbye. He racked his brain to remember every aspect of that departure; there had been nothing.

He parked on the curb outside Riverside Drive and took a deep breath. If Neal truly wasn't where his ankle said he was, he was required to report it immediately to both Hughes and the United States Marshal Service. Once he did that, his ability to undo whatever Neal had done would be over. He wouldn't be able to save him from the consequences of his actions.

To be so smart, brilliant even, Neal could do stupid things when he was upset or desperate. He could act impulsively without thinking things through. But he had seemed fine and manipulating the tracking device would have taken a lot of planning. Whatever Neal was up to, it wasn't impulsive. Stupid, absolutely, but not impulsive. That was what really worried him. He'd heard Neal talk about the long con, about playing a part so long and so completely that the lines between who you were and who you were pretending to be blurred. What if that was what all of this had been? What if all the progress he thought he'd been making, all those small glimpses past Neal's carefully crafted façade, were all a part of the illusion Neal had created? With a sigh, he left the Taurus and started up the sidewalk. His phone rang, his heart jumped in anticipation, but the caller ID told him the call was from June Ellington, and not Neal Caffrey.

"Hey, June." It wasn't his usual phone etiquette, but the situation wasn't usual.

"Peter," she said, "I don't want you to jump to the wrong conclusions, but-"

"Neal's gone," Peter finished for her. "I know. Look; I 'm outside your house and June," he added, "Can you call Mozzie? I need to talk to him."

The door had opened before he reached it. "No need to call me, Suit, I'm already here."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Mozzie's presence, coupled with the fact that he seemed to have been in on June's call, indicated that whatever Neal was up to, his friend and usual cohort wasn't aware of it. The little guy seemed genuinely worried as he stepped aside to make way for Peter's entrance. The door had barely closed behind him when the two of them began speaking.

"One at a time," Peter said, holding up his hand to interrupt the barrage. "I take it then," he looked from one worried face to the other, "that Neal is not upstairs, just avoiding us with a lady friend or something?"

 _If only_ , Peter thought. He cringed inside at Mozzie's response.

"If only," Mozzie shook his head firmly. "We checked his apartment. Even the closets. He's not there."

"Tracking data says he is," Peter said, "and that he has been since yesterday afternoon."

"Hence our concern," Mozzie said. "Whoever took him is obviously someone who can manipulate the tracking data."

"Took him?" Peter repeated looking from one to the other. "You think someone _took_ him?" Peter had run several scenarios through his head, but Neal being taken hadn't been one of them. "Why?"

It took five minutes of rapid-fire conversation for them to catch Peter up on what they had seen, and what they suspected, and for him to do the same.

"Someone is manipulating his tracking data, has hacked into the system," Peter's eyes met Mozzie's. "I happen to know that both you and Neal have some proficiency in that area."

"We have proficiency in _many_ areas," Mozzie boasted, "but getting into that particular software has proven quite the challenge. So far we've had no luck getting the right-" he stopped, a slightly guilty look on his face.

"Getting the right _what_?" Peter demanded eyebrows raised.

"Never mind that," Mozzie replied hastily. "All I can tell you is that I didn't hack the anklet, and I don't think Neal did, either. Someone else is doing this."

"Who, Mozzie?" Peter asked skeptically. "Who could do this? Who would do this?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mozzie's tone was sarcastic. "The men who picked him up looked like Feds, and Feds have the ability to control his tracking device."

Peter sighed. Of course, it was a government conspiracy. At least, he wasn't being accused directly. "I think it's more likely that Neal's run off than it is that some clandestine branch of the Federal Government has abducted him."

"He wouldn't leave without telling me," Mozzie insisted. "And which is the more common occurrence, Neal taking off or some agent using him to do their dirty work?"

Peter didn't answer the question; the count was probably close to even. He turned his attention to Neal's landlady. "These men Neal left with-"

"You mean the men who _took_ Neal," Mozzie corrected.

Peter glared at him and continued, "-what did they look like?"

"They looked like _Suits_ ," Mozzie interrupted before June could answer. "Either they were suits or they wanted people to think they were."

"You know Mozzie," Peter said impatiently, "other people wears suits and sunglasses and drive SUV's. Why would anyone impersonate Federal Agents?"

"Because Neal has been trained to obey them," Mozzie snapped back, "What is it you tell him? ' _You belong to the FBI, and you do what we say, or you go back to Prison'_." Peter didn't appreciate Mozzie's Agent Burke impersonation; it was less than flattering. "In the past, Neal would have rightly associated two strangers on the street with danger and avoided them. Now, he just walks right up to them like a lamb to the slaughter. Working with you has dulled his self-preservation instincts, Suit."

"Neal tosses his self-preservation instincts out the window every time he pulls some stupid stunt, Mozzie," Peter fired back. "You know that as well as I do. And those guys could be his new best friends, for all you know, his accomplices for this little venture." He turned to June. "Did you _see_ Neal _arguing_ with them, or _any_ signs of _conflict?_ "

"No," June admitted, "but like I said, I was pruning my bonsai and not wat-"

"I told you," Mozzie said to June, "I told you that he wouldn't listen to us, and he'd just blame Neal." He looked back at Peter. "I'm telling you if Neal had figured out how to beat the anklet he would have told me, and if he planned to disappear, he'd tell me that, too. He told me before."

It was true. When Neal had been preparing to disappear with Kate, he'd said good-bye to everyone. Everyone except him.

"Things change, Mozzie," Peter offered. "Maybe he didn't want you to know. Maybe," he paused before adding, "maybe he wanted a clean break."

He felt a twinge of regret at the quick look of hurt that flashed across the short, bespectacled man's face. The thought that Neal would leave him behind, without saying goodbye, seemed a painful thought. Peter could understand. The thought that Neal could have said goodbye to him on Friday, never planning to see him again, bothered him, too.

"Maybe, but if he planned to disappear he'd have canceled our Friday night chess match," Mozzie's voice rose defensively. "I wouldn't have given it a second thought," He looked at Peter, "and I certainly wouldn't have called Mrs. Suit and alerted you to his absence. Anyway," he puffed up a bit, "he might leave without me, but he'd never leave without _those_."

Mozzie nodded in the direction of the wide hall that led into the study and Peter followed his gaze. On the corner of the credenza was a rather large stack of bills; beside it was an oversized envelope.

He raised his eyebrows in question. "What's that?"

"Neal's Plan B," Mozzie replied. "His backup, contingency, in-case-of-emergency, exit plan."

Backup. Contingency. In-case-of-emergency exit plan. Peter moved toward the items, but Mozzie blocked his path, holding his hand up like a crossing guard directing traffic.

"No, Suit, you don't get to _peruse_ Plan B. It's bad enough that I revealed that it even exists."

"Of course, it exists," Peter said, halting his movement. "I know Neal; He always has a plan B and probably a C, D, E, and F." Plan B was cash, and most likely a well-crafted alias he could use to leave the country. "Where did you find those?"

"Where isn't important," Mozzie said, "that I did; _that's_ the important part. Neal didn't take them because he didn't plan to run." He paused, swallowing hard. "Something else is going on here, Peter; Neal is in real trouble."

Mozzie had called him Peter, and his tone had slipped from irritable to pleading. The concern on his face was real. If Neal was running a con, he hadn't just run it on Peter; he had run it on Mozzie as well. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. But he did feel bad for Mozzie.

He sighed. "Okay, but I need to look at Neal's apartment just in case-"

"In case what?" Mozzie asked, "In case he left his travel plans for you to find? June and I have already looked through his apartment. The first thing I did when I realized something was off was to check to make sure he hadn't put the anklet on June's dog or a room rumba-"

He stopped at Peter's look. "Like you, Suit," he admitted reluctantly, "my first thought was that Neal might have gone off on some wild expedition. But once I talked to June, and then found _that_ " Mozzie again gestured towards the items on the credenza. "I knew he was in trouble not of his own making. That's when I agreed we should call you."

The fact was that if Neal had left anything incriminating behind Mozzie would likely have already disposed of it. It would be a waste of time; time he really didn't have.

"I'm going to head down to the office and see what I can find out," Peter started towards the door.

"You will find him, won't you Peter?" June's face was pinched with concern.

"Oh, I'll find him," Peter said with certainty, "Whether he wants me to or not." Then to Mozzie. "Are you absolutely sure Neal didn't run?"

"I am positive, Suit," Mozzie said with equal certainty.

"Do you have any idea who might have taken him, or why?"

"Nothing has come readily to mind," Mozzie admitted, "but suffice it to say, his career choices have made him some enemies. Some of which," he added, "he made while working with you."

"Please find him, Peter," June followed him to the door. "We are all he has, you know. The only ones he has in his corner when he's in trouble."

Neal in trouble seemed an all too common occurrence.

"I've got Jones tracking the GPS on the phone we gave him," He looked at Mozzie, "but I know he has another one. Want to give me the number so that we can track it as well?"

Mozzie's mouth opened but then closed tightly. Peter knew he didn't want to give up the number. If Neal were running, it might be a trail right to him. "If I can track him through the phone, that's better for all of us." At Mozzie's hesitancy, Peter continued. "Mozzie, if I can't find him quickly, I'm going to have to report this to the Marshals, and after that, things are going to get more complicated, and dangerous, for Neal. I need that number."

"So," Mozzie said, eyes drilling into Peter's skull, "Which is he, a kidnap victim or an escaped felon? You have to pick a side, Suit."

Peter met his eyes. "Let's just say for now he's a mutual friend in a lot of trouble."

That answer, Peter felt, covered both scenarios. Mozzie hesitated a moment more before, with a sigh, he spouted out the digits to Neal's phone. Peter took the number down, then looked up at Mozzie.

"You work your side of the world and see what you can turn up. And Mozzie, if you find out anything or hear from him, no matter what it is, you _have_ to tell me, understand?"

"Quid Pro Quo, Suit," he replied, "Quid Pro Quo."


	4. Chapter 4

_So, here is where I will depart from my comfort zone, altering Neal's canon history and beginning a new kind of story for me. Hope I can do it justice. Thanks for the reviews and words of encouragement._

 **Chapter 4**

Neal's mind was foggy; he was unsure of where he was or how he had gotten there. His head pounded furiously, his mouth was dry, and he felt like he might throw up. In addition to the ache in his head, there was pain between his shoulders. He was so disoriented it took him a moment to realize why; he sitting up but leaning forward, his arms fastened uncomfortably behind him. He straightened to relieve the tension in his back, opened his eyes and looked around in confusion.

He was alone in the room; his prison was plain, dingy and not very large. It might have been a storage room at one time but now, other than his chair, the room was completely empty. There were no windows so Neal didn't know if it were day or night. The light came from a fluorescent panel in the ceiling. His distress grew when he realized someone had undressed him; he was no longer in his suit. His apparel consisted of his tee shirt and boxers. He pulled against the ties that bound his arms but to no avail. It felt like zip ties, but without his lock picks, even cuffs would have been a challenge. His glanced down at his ankle expecting the tracker to be gone but, surprisingly, it was still there. His momentary relief at that discovery disappeared once he moved his foot and saw that the usual green blinking light was dark.

His anxiety increased. Who had brought him here and why was the anklet not working?

He took a deep breath to calm both his nerves and his stomach. He tried to concentrate on what had happened. He remembered leaving the office. He remembered arriving at Riverside Drive and getting...his heart began to pound. He remembered a sudden sting in his shoulder; someone had drugged him and shoved him into the backseat of a vehicle.

Slowly, the details returned to his mind. Two men had met him as he arrived home, telling him his anklet need a manual reset. There had been a software malfunction at the end of the day. They'd tried to catch him at the White Collar offices, but he had already left.

It would only take a minute; one man had said as he crouched down to access the anklet. Suddenly, there was a sharp sting in his shoulder. The man in front sprang up, wrapping his arms around him and driving him towards the vehicle before he could react. The other man opened the door, and Neal was quickly shoved into the back seat. He tried to resist, but whatever he'd been injected with was fast acting. Unable to even hold himself upright, he fell over on his side as the door closed behind him.

The two men took their places in the front seat and started the engine. He tried to speak, to demand an explanation, but no sound issued from his mouth. It was a strange sensation; numbness began to engulf his entire body. After a moment more, he couldn't even feel the pressure of the seat against his body. He almost felt as if he was floating. The SUV pulled away from the curb slowly, without any squealing of tires to draw attention to his plight. The last thing he remembered thinking was how stupid he'd been in taking them at their word and not asking to see their credentials the minute they'd approached him.

 _That_ was how he'd gotten here, but it didn't tell him why, or _where_ here was. His first impression was that he was in a basement; it was damp and cold, and his lack of clothing didn't help. He could still feel the effects of whatever they had injected him with; he seemed to be thinking in slow motion. Again, he took several breaths, trying to clear his head and calm his still queasy stomach.

He had been sedated and restrained, but he didn't seem to be hurt; that was a good sign. If someone wanted him dead, he'd already be dead. They had some other purpose for grabbing him. They wanted him for something, and that could give him a bargaining tool. A good conman could always find room to work between a rock and a hard place. He just needed to be able to think clearly, gather information and access the situation.

He tried to remember every detail of his brief encounter with the men who'd taken him. They had looked like Federal Agents, and the anklet was deactivated. Very few people had the authority to do that but if Federal Agents wanted him for something they wouldn't have to kidnap him. All they'd have to do was sent a request to Hughes; requisition him like toner for the copier or a new coffee machine. That was, of course, if they wanted him for something legitimate. They could want him for something very different. It wouldn't be the first time a Federal Agent had broken the rules to control him for their own purposes.

Still slow on the uptake, it suddenly occurred to him that his feet weren't tied. It was possible he could stand up, he might be able to work himself free of the chair. It was possible, with him both drugged and tied to the chair, his captors may have seen no reason to lock him in. But his movement was slow and clumsy, and before he could even manage to get to his feet, he heard the door rattle. Angry that he'd wasted precious time, he settled his chair back on all four legs as the two men from before entered the room.

"If you are with the Marshal Service," Neal began, "I have a real problem with how my tax dollars are being spent." He was proud of how calm he sounded; he didn't feel calm. He wasn't sure if the shaking inside was nerves or a side effect of the drugs he'd been given.

Instead of a reply, the larger of the two men produced a pair of heavy shears. That kind of answered that. Federal Marshals wouldn't need shears; they would have a key. The man approached him and reached down to grab his foot.

Neal lived for the times when Peter removed the anklet. He could never stop the sudden increase in his heartbeat or the smile that automatically came to his lips before the look from Peter stifled it. But for once, he desperately wanted the anklet to stay right where it was. As soon as Peter realized it had been deactivated, he would know something was wrong. He'd call the Marshal Service. A reset might at least get Peter on his trail. He instinctively jerked his foot back.

The act of noncompliance earned him a quick punch, and he tasted blood where his teeth had cut into the inside of his jaw. The man again grabbed at Neal's ankle, and for a brief moment, he thought about kicking out as hard as he could. But the fact was there were two of them, he was still unsteady and tied to a chair; if they wanted the monitor removed from his ankle, it was going to be removed. The removal could be painless, or painful. He chose the former. The time for fighting back would come, he told himself, but this was not it.

The shears cut through the band, and the man pulled the device from his ankle. Instead of the surge of excitement he usually felt with its absence, Neal felt a wave of despair. If Peter called the Marshal Service for a reset now, they'd tell him the anklet had been cut. Instead of realizing Neal was in trouble, Peter would think he'd run.

"I have to tell you; that is seriously frowned upon by the FBI," His voice was light in spite of the sudden heaviness he felt, "and especially so by Agent Peter Burke. As soon as he realizes the anklet has been cut, all hell's going to break loose. He'll be pissed and have everyone from the NYPD to Neighborhood Watch out looking for me."

"No one's going to be looking for you, Danny boy." The voice sounded from the doorway and Neal felt his breath catch in his throat. "At least, not for awhile."

The new arrival stepped around the man who'd removed the tracker and Neal found himself face to face with a part of his past he'd worked hard to forget.

Terrence Eden wanted him dead; the only reason he wasn't that way already was because the man would want to do the deed himself. Neal knew it wouldn't be fast, or merciful. Eden had probably dreamed of this moment for ten years, and now that it was here, he would want to enjoy every minute of it.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal met Eden in the months after he'd ran away from a life of lies. His life hadn't been great; his mother drank too much, and he was always being jerked up and moved without a chance to say goodbye to any friends he managed to make. But he'd always told himself that was just the price of being the son of a hero. But one afternoon when he was sixteen, he'd arrived home early and learned the truth about the life they had been forced to live.

He recognized the vehicle in the drive although he probably had never seen that particular one before It was a black and nondescript. The Marshal Service was here. Their appearance could only mean one thing; the were going to have to move again. Neal had felt his stomach tighten and after slipping in the back door, he heard the heated conversation taking place in the living room.

It was then that he learned the truth about his father; he hadn't been a hero, he'd been a criminal. And their life in hiding was to protect them from him and his associates and not from the criminals he'd help put away. His heart pounded in his chest; he had been lied to by everyone he knew. On some level, he understood why, but he still felt betrayed. More than that, he felt like a fool. He had put so much pride in who his father had been. He'd spoken of him with pride, promising himself and his mother that he would grow up to be like him, a hero. His face burned in shame as he listened, then it turned to anger.

He pushed that feeling down and eased himself back out the door. He walked around the house and approached as if nothing had alerted him. At the front door, he took a deep breath and let the tension drain from his face. They weren't the only ones gifted at deceit.

When he opened the door, the conversation ended abruptly. The situation, he was told, wasn't acute but a move was in their immediate future. At the news, he allowed his responses to run the usual gambit. He protested, then responded in anger. He expressed his disappointment at having to start over again. Of course, those arguments never changed anything. If the Marshal said you had to move, you had to move. By the end, he feigned the expected resolved acceptance. That was the way things always progressed when he was told they were moving again. He'd done this several times, so it was easy to pretend it was just like it always was. Except it wasn't.

Nothing was the same, and never would be again. Funny how one piece of information could change everything, even who you thought you were or were going to be. He'd relocate, sure, but this time, it would be on his terms. He would choose where he would start over. That night, with a small duffle bag of possessions and even smaller financial resources, he left the suburban house he'd almost come to think of as home.

He made his way to the city, a place he could get lost and disappear. A place where no one would know, or care to know, who he was, where he came from, or who his father had or hadn't been. But life on the street was hard. The threat of violence was always present. Once, he'd been left bloody and bruised once over a box of pizza. He'd had handed it over but never had the chance; he never even saw his assailants coming. He was hit from behind, shoved into the wall of the alley and pummeled. The two other times he'd been beaten had been more severe; punishment for running street games in someone else's territory. He had finally found a niche of his own in a park on the East side. He'd been there almost three weeks without incident. He did okay, getting enough money during the week to eat regularly. But one afternoon, he pick-pocketed the wrong man. The man had been fast, almost as if he'd been expecting it, catching Neal before he could make a clean pick. He was much taller than Neal, and when he twisted his arm up behind him, it forced Neal to rise to his tip toes to help relieve the pain.

Neal expected him to call the police, or to find a patrolman in the park and turn him in. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd adjusted the position he held him in and told him that someone wanted to meet him. The grip on his arm remained firm as he was taken a few blocks away to a small restaurant where, moments later, he met the owner Terrence Eden.

It was clear to Neal that the restaurant business wasn't Eden's primary source of income. It wasn't only the looks of the man himself but the obvious muscle he had hanging around the place. It was also the way the men, although younger and much larger in size than Eden, seemed timid in his presence. Neal wasn't sure what to expect. He was clearly out of his league and guessed the way he handled himself would decide if he walked out of this meeting unscathed or not.

He knew it was important to keep his composure, so rested his hands against his legs to keep them from shaking. He pulled his shoulders back, stretched himself to his full height and forced himself to meet the man's hard eyes. He hadn't been on the street long, but he'd been there long enough to have learned a few basic survival techniques. Showing weakness was never a good idea, and instinct told him that showing weakness to this man would be a serious mistake.

But when the man asked his name, he'd responded without thinking.

"Danny-," he'd almost given his full name but stopped himself. Eden must have caught it. His eyebrows raised slightly.

"A little young to be on your own, aren't you Danny?"

He didn't ask how the man knew he was on his own or dispute the assumption. "I'm eighteen," Neal lied. Eden looked skeptical but didn't press the issue. His next questions were more general. How long had he been in the city? Did he have family here? Neal kept his answers truthful but brief; he didn't elaborate or volunteer any information that was not asked for specifically.

After a few minutes, the smell from the restaurant began to affect his empty stomach. At one point, Eden's eyes narrowed, and he asked if Neal would like something from the kitchen. The men in the room laughed and Neal felt his face flush in embarrassment that his rumbling stomach had been heard. His pride insulted, he declined the offer a bit sharper than he'd intended.

Neal listened more than he spoke during that first meeting, something else he'd learned was wise. Eden confirmed his suspicion that the man who had nabbed him had been lying in wait. Eden had been told by some of his people that there was a kid working the park. A kid who'd only recently appeared and who seemed to be a very skilled pickpocket. He had sent the man to find him and bring him in for a talk.

Eden not only knew about his wallet lifting activities but was aware of the small cons he'd been running as well. Neal got the feeling that Eden didn't miss much. He said he was impressed by his initiative and always kept his eye out for talent that would make his organization more profitable. He asked if Neal would be willing to come work for him, to join his crew. He was free to decline, Eden had said, and if he did he'd be asked to move along to another area. There would be no hard feelings. If he accepted, he could continue to work the park on his own time, and also do some errands for Eden when needed.

"Robert and Tom," Eden said, nodding at two of men in the room, "have been with me for awhile now. Robert about, what has it been?" he asked, "Five years now?" Robert nodded in agreement, "and Tom almost as long," he continued. "We're almost like family now, aren't we boys?"

A wiser person would have picked up on the change of tone in the question and the way the two men, only a few years older than Neal himself, responded with quick, almost nervous nods of agreement.

"Yes, sir." Robert was apparently the more vocal of the two. "Better than the one I left in Springfield, that's for sure."

But Neal was not wise; he was young and naive. He was pleased that someone like Eden had taken notice of him and wanted him to be part of his crew. Working for Eden would provide him protection and the thoughts of belonging to a crew, a crew that felt like family, appealed to him as well. Still, he didn't want to appear overly eager or desperate; especially after the growling stomach incident. He asked for time to think it over.

He made himself wait two days before returning to the restaurant and accepting the offer. Eden had been pleased, then with a hand on his shoulder, he asked:

"So, Danny, do you have a place to stay?"

"I'm good," Neal said, "Thanks."

The man's fingers dug into his shoulder. Not exactly painfully, but the sudden pressure could have easily turned that way. "You slept behind the dumpster off Caldwell last night," he said quietly, "and under the bridge near the park the night before that. One thing you need to learn, and that is that you should never lie to me."

The man had apparently been having him watched. "I'm sorry," Neal said, risking a look at the man. He had just accepted the man's offer and had already messed up. "I won't do it again."

"Good," Eden replied, removing his hand from Neal's shoulder. "Honesty and loyalty are what I require from my people, and now that includes you. I know talent when I see it," he said, "and I expect good things from you. Now," he said, moving towards the office door. "Since I knew you didn't have anywhere to stay, I've already arranged a place for you. It's small, but its warm and basically free. You can stay there as long as you work for me."

"Exactly what will I be doing?" Neal asked as he followed Eden out of the restaurant.

"We'll get to that later," Eden replied as they walked around the block to a brick apartment building. It was in a state of disrepair, but considering he was homeless, it was still a vast improvement over his current accommodations. Once inside, Eden moved down the hallway and stopped outside a door with the number four on it.

"Get yourself settled in," Eden said, handing Neal a key, "and come over to the restaurant tonight about seven and have dinner. Anything you want; my treat. We'll talk then."

"Thank you." There was suddenly an uncomfortable lump in his throat. "Thanks for giving me a chance. You won't be disappointed, and I won't let you down." He feared if he said much more his composure would crumble. He dropped his eyes to the knob and turned the key in the door. He felt a pat on his back.

"I know you won't, Danny boy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Dinner with his new benefactor that evening was a nerve-racking event, to say the least. It was one thing to appear unrattled for a fifteen-minute encounter but quite another to keep that up throughout an entire dinner. Neal arrived at six-fifty-five and the restaurant was packed. A hostess approached him with questioning eyes.

"I'm supposed to meet Mr. Eden," he said. "Can you tell him I am here?"

"Sure, sweetheart," she said, "Come with me." He followed her to a table in the back corner. There was a tent card with the word RESERVED on it. "Have a seat and I'll let Terry know you're here."

A moment later, Eden emerged from his office and joined him. The waitress was at their table with menus almost before he took his seat. A perk of being the owner, Neal guessed. Eden didn't even glance at his menu and ordered a ten-ounce rib eye, rare. He encouraged Neal to do the same. Anything he wanted, he repeated. His treat.

"A cheeseburger is more enough for me," Neal said politely to the waitress, handing back the menu, "and Coke, please." The truth was that even if he wasn't stressed, he didn't think his stomach could handle a big meal. He hadn't had one in months. He'd be lucky to choke down a cheeseburger.

"The plate or just the sandwich?"

Eden spoke before he could respond to the waitress' question. "Plate, and give him extra fries," he supplied. After the waitress had left he continued. "You can always take what you don't eat home with you and have it later. I doubt you've had time t stock the fridge. What do you think of the apartment?"

It took Neal a moment to respond. The word _home_ was still echoing in his mind. "It's nice," Neal answered truthfully, "I really appreciate you setting that up for me."

"It's nice," Neal answered truthfully, "I really appreciate you setting that up for me."

Nice was an understatement. After having lived on the street for two months amazing would have been closer to the truth, but Neal had chosen a less exuberant word. The apartment was furnished, right down to linens and bath toiletries Neal could tell were straight from the packages. Something else he guessed he had Eden to thank for. The first thing he'd done after retrieving the belonging he'd stashed before his meeting was to test out the shower. Water was hot; pressure was good. The thought of a daily shower was just short of heaven, but a part of him feared what such amenities were going to cost him. Eden had said the apartment was his as long as he worked for him; he hadn't provided it out of the kindness of his heart. Eden was all business and he expected something in return.

He had seen some of the ways other kids on the street survived. Some were thieves like him and managed to eat and get the occasional warm bed to sleep in. Others sold drugs, but shot up their profits and still went hungry. Another group, mostly the girls, chose a different route. They made a lot of money, usually had a place to stay and food to eat, but the things they did no amount of hot showers could wash away. He knew that at least some of them had been lured into their professions by the promise of food, shelter, and protection. The three things everyone on the street coveted. He wanted to know what kind of work Eden had in mind for him. That information, not the promised dinner, was what he was here for. The waitress returned with their drinks and Eden's house salad.

"As I said before," Eden said, picking up his fork, "It's not much but I guess it's better than what you're accustomed to. Two months on the street, huh?"

"Yeah," Neal acknowledged, "but it seems longer."

"Difficult situations have a tendency to make us feel that way," Eden commented. "Have you thought about just going back?" Eden asked, taking a bite of his salad.

Neal had thought about it; right after his first beating landed him in a Chicago Emergency Room. He was hurt and scared and at that moment, wanted to give the attending his mother's name and number. But the truth was that he didn't know either one anymore. She had been relocated; new job, new city, new name. There was no going back. He had known when he left that would be the case. He figured it was better that way. With the option of going back removed, his only choice would be to move forward.

"This is my life now," Neal stated firmly. "Whatever direction I go, back is not an option for me."

Eden seemed to think that over as he took another bite of his salad. Neal sipped his drink and waited. He really wished his food would arrive. At least he could pick at his fries or something.

"Good looking kid like you," Eden commented, "somebody's got to be looking for you."

Neal shook his head. "No, no one is looking for me."

"I find that hard to believe," he said, "And there is no way in hell you're eighteen years old."

Neal met Eden's eyes and didn't hesitate. "No one is looking for me and have ID that says I turned eighteen last June."

His timing was perfect; the waitress arrived just as the proclamation left his mouth. She sat his cheeseburger and extra fries in front of him, and Eden's steak in front of him. Eden had warned him not to lie, and he hadn't; both of his statements were true. He ate a fry and waited for Eden's response.

"Your _ID_ says that, does it?" he sounded amused. "You're smart, Danny, I can see that; but don't ever get the idea that you are smarter than I am. That would be a mistake."

Eden's amused tone had quickly shifted to one of warning; Neal took a sip of his soda to relieve his suddenly dry mouth.

"I've been at this a long time," Eden continued, "and I can read people like yesterday's news. And I always know more than you think I do. For instance," he said, "I imagine the ID you're referring to is a student ID from one of the local colleges?"

Neal couldn't hide his surprise. "How could you-" He began.

"You visited the YMCA four days ago," Eden interrupted, "took a few laps in the pool and used the showers. The community colleges have an agreement that allows their students to use the YMCA facilities as part of their activity fees. All you have to have is show your student ID card. Which you did."

Neal had realized at the first meeting that Eden had been watching him; that was the only way he'd know about some of his playground con games. But he hadn't thought he'd had him followed until after their meeting. Apparently that was a wrong assumption. The man did know more than Neal thought he did. He'd have to keep that in mind.

"Harry S. Truman College," Neal admitted. "I found it in the park one day. The edges were frayed, so I peeled it back and covered the photo with one I had taken at Walgreens. I resealed it using a badge making kit." He shrugged. "I don't look much like a Jason, but it works."

"Like I said, _smart,_ " Eden began, "I've been looking for the right person for a special project, Danny, and I think you might be it. You're quick with your hands and have the right touch; I bet you are a fast learner, too."

Eden's compliments pleased him immensely, and Neal couldn't help the smile that crossed his face at the praise. After a bumpy start, things seemed to be going much smoother now. And it seemed like finally, he would find out what kind of work Eden had in mind for him.

"Yes sir," he responded, "I've had to be. Can I ask what you have in mind?"

"Let's just say I want to expand on your existing skills." He dropped his voice. "Instead of opening _wallets_ Danny, I want to teach you how to open _safes._ With your size, you can get into places my guys can't go, and if you can learn to open a safe, you will be very useful to me."

Neal felt a thrill at the prospect. A safe was kind of like a puzzle to solve, and Neal loved puzzles. "Well, I want to be useful," Neal said, "Just tell me when and where and I'll be there."

Eden was pleased with his enthusiasm. "I'll make some arrangements, but in the meantime, you're going to be doing some delivery work for me."

That sounded a bit mundane after talk of safe cracking, but delivering take out in exchange for a hot shower and a place to sleep wasn't a bad deal.

"The restaurant does well," Eden continued, gesturing to the busy room around them, "but I have another, more lucrative, business that _also_ requires a delivery service."

Neal realized then it wasn't take-out that he would be delivering. Drugs? Money? He didn't know and didn't ask. It didn't matter. "When do you want me to start?"

"Tonight," Eden said. "You'll be working with Tom; you do _exactly_ what he tells you. He'll be by your apartment about ten to pick you up. "

"I'll be ready."

"You're part of my crew now," Eden said, "and there is no turning back, no walking away. As you said earlier, this is your life. It can be a comfortable life if you do what you are told and cause me no trouble." His eyes narrowed. "But if you step out of line, or betray my trust in any way, then let's just say _uncomfortable_ doesn't begin to cover what your life will become. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly," Neal replied. "I won't cause you any trouble."

"See that you don't," Eden said, cutting off another bite of steak, "and you and I will get along just fine."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"I've been waiting a long time for this, Danny."

Eden towered above him, and his with hands fastened behind him, Neal was in no position to defend himself against what he was sure was to come. But Eden's enjoyment of his predicament was interrupted when he caught sight of the tracking device in the other man's hand. The look of smug satisfaction was replaced with one of concerned irritation.

"That should have been removed immediately," he barked at the man. "Why the delay?"

"There was an unforeseen lag, sir," the man explained, "between the loop and the device's deactivation. We had to wait until it was safe to remove."

They were talking about the tracking device. Neal tried to pay attention to the conversation, but his heart was pounding in his ears and their voices sounded strangely distant. Even his vision seemed to be impaired; it was like he was looking through a tunnel and everything in his peripherals were out of focus. He wasn't sure if the drugs he'd been injected with were still affecting his mind or if he was about to faint from the sheer shock of the unexpected reunion. Either way, he struggled to follow the conversation. He only got bits and pieces and even those made little sense to him. Programming issues with the data looping and some _she_ Eden suspected was not doing her part.

"She explained what happened," the man was saying, "and I believe her; she's got too much at stake to try anything."

"Just make sure she stays properly motivated," Eden told the man.

She must have been the one who turned off the tracking device, Neal realized, and somehow Eden had convinced her to do it. Neal knew how Eden motivated people so whoever she was, she was in some kind of trouble of her own. He concentrated on slowing his breathing; in through the nose, out through the mouth. If there was any chance of surviving he had to pull himself together. He had to push down the waves of panic that had been washing over him even since he'd seen Terrence Eden.

Satisfied with the man's explanation, Eden turned his attention back to his captive, his look of satisfaction returning. A tightness constricted Neal's lungs, and it took all he could do to suck in enough air to speak. When he did so, his voice was remarkably calm.

"Terrence Eden," he said. "You could have just called if you wanted to catch up. We could have done lunch."

The smile that crossed Eden's face did nothing to soften the hardness of his eyes. "Still putting on a brave face when you're so scared you're about to shit your pants," he chuckled, shaking his head. "You haven't changed much in ten years, have you, Danny?"

"I've changed quite a bit," Neal replied sharply, feeling his face flush."For starters, my name isn't Danny; it's Neal, Neal Caffrey."

"Yes, imagine my surprise when I found out that you were the great Neal Caffrey." Eden's hand moved toward his face and Neal flinched in spite of himself. The man gripped his chin roughly; turning his face to inspect what Neal guessed was his swelling jaw. He looked pleased. "Of course, you'll still just Danny to me."

He had only _been_ Danny to Eden. Even though it was in the small apartment Eden had provided for him he created the documents that changed him into Neal Caffrey, adding a couple of years to his age in the process, he'd kept that information to himself. It wasn't the first time he'd generated documents that he needed, but it was the first time he'd created a new identity. It had been easier than he thought. A notary stamp he'd procured from a car dealership and an old Royal Typewriter he'd bought at a junk shop were all the tools he'd needed to become Neal Caffrey. That and the proper incentive to start over yet again, which Eden had supplied.

"I've not been Danny for a long time," he retorted, "and I'm not a scared, homeless kid anymore, either."

His words brought the first of what Neal knew would be many blows. Eden's fist slammed into his abdomen and Neal jerked forward with a grunt, straining his already aching shoulders.

"A scared, homeless kid I took pity on and gave a place to live and food to eat. And how did you repay me?" The question was punctuated with another blow that sent a shooting pain through Neal's kidney. Neal gritted his teeth and remained silent. "By betraying my trust and running off when it was time to repay your debt."

Neal knew his departure had cost Eden a big job and he guessed the information he'd anonymously provided the police had proven even more problematic. Neal had known if Eden ever found him he'd be dead. Of course, he'd gone to great lengths-created a new identity and moved eight hundred miles to New York City-to keep that from happening. And now, ten years later, the time for reprisal had arrived.

Neal remembered the last beating he'd experienced at Eden's hands. It had ended with him curled up on the floor, hands protecting his head from Eden's vicious kicks. He'd begged him to stop, begged the silent onlookers to help him, but to no avail. Eden had derived sadist pleasure from his desperate pleadings for mercy and no one in the room had been willing to risk his wrath by interfering. It had seemed like hours before blissful darkness took away his pain.

With the memory of that night, Neal felt his face flush again, this time in anger. He had been terrified of this man, had been brutalized and humiliated. But he wasn't sixteen years old anymore. Eden might beat him to death, but he'd be damned if he'd give him the satisfaction of cowering or begging for mercy. He raised his head and glared at the man, letting the anger boil in him and defiance blaze in his eyes.

"I didn't owe you a debt," he said with gritted teeth. "You said the apartment was mine as long as I worked for you, and I worked for you the entire time I was there. When I quit working for you, I _left_. I don't owe you anything."

The blow that followed slammed his head against the back of the chair. He could now not only taste blood but feel it running down his face. There was an odd ringing in his ears.

"Oh, I disagree," Eden growled. "You do owe me, and I'm here to collect."

"Then get on with it, you son-of-a-bitch," Neal sputtered, sending blood in a spray of fine droplets, his voice bordering on hysterics. "If you've come to kill me then do it already."

"I didn't come to kill you," Eden corrected with a cruel grin, "At least, not yet. You see, I have a job for you."

"I don't work for you." Neal's defiance had grown into a full-blown rebellion that surpassed all reasonable thought, "and I'm not doing _anything f_ or _you_."

"Oh, I think you will," Eden replied. "If you are properly motivated."


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks for reading and reviewing my story. Hearing from readers helps keep me on task and motivated :)_

 **Chapter Six**

Voices rousted Neal, not from sleep but something much less restful. He wasn't sure if he'd been unconscious minutes or hours, and although he had no memory of throwing up, he had the distinct taste of vomit in his mouth. It took him a moment to remember what had happened. Terrence Eden had found him; after all, this time, the man had finally tracked him down. But the beating he'd expected included something he hadn't; a job offer. Of course, it wasn't really an offer; an offer implied you had a choice in the matter and with Eden that had never been the case. Half out of his mind with shock, fear, and anger, Neal hadn't responded favorably. The last thing he remembered was gritting his teeth in determination not to give Eden the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. He thought that was the end; the end of Danny and the end of Neal. But, surprisingly enough, he was still alive.

"This is not what I signed up for," a voice was saying. It wasn't Eden speaking but one of the men who'd grabbed him; the one who'd cut his anklet and belted him across the jaw. "Damn, he stinks."

Neal tried not to take offense at the statement. He guessed if he could taste vomit, they could smell it and the only thing more disgusting than the smell of your own vomit was the smell of someone else's.

"We signed up for a job, Max," The other man had moved in front of him; he could tell his position by his voice. Neal kept his chin resting on his chest. If they didn't realize he was awake, maybe they'd say something useful. Like what Eden wanted him to do and when he was supposed to do it. "and part of that job is doing what we're told."

"But this shouldn't even be necessary," Max stated, "Who goes to all the trouble to get the _perfect man_ for a job and then _beats_ him senseless?"

"He realized he'd gone too far, that's why-," the other man stopped,

"He told us to clean up his mess?" Max finished.

"Yeah, but listen," the other man said, "He's having a hard time breathing; we need to get him out of that chair."

"I knew he had a score to settle," Max admitted, "but I expected him to deal with it after tomorrow. Everything depends on this guy doing his part; if he isn't able, then the whole plan is shot to hell. Hang on to him and I'll cut him loose."

Neal hoped having his arms free would ease some of his discomfort. The blows Eden had dealt to his midsection caused sharp pain with each breath; reminiscent of the last beating when Eden's boots had broken three of his ribs. Having his arms pulled behind him only intensified the pain. What air he got came in shallow gasps. The beating that time had stopped short of killing him because he was worth more to Eden alive than dead. If what the man had said was true, that everything depended on him doing his part, then that was the case now as well.

Or at least for the moment. What had Eden said?

 _I'm not going to kill you, at least, not yet._ The statement didn't exactly inspire a spirit of cooperation.

The man in front of him put a hand on each of Neal's shoulders. When Max cut the ties that held Neal's wrists, he fell forward slightly, but the man held him steady. The man adjusted his position when Max came around to help.

"Wake it up, Caffrey," Max ordered.

Neal ignored the request but at the second one, he opened his eyes, doing his best to feign the confusion of one just awakened. It wasn't hard; once he opened his eyes, he had to blink several times to clear his vision. Everything seemed out of focus and the room tilted slightly to the left.

"Wha-" His tongue felt thick, and his words came out in a mumble, "Whass goin' on?"

There seemed to be a disconnect between his brain and tongue that was more than mildly distressing.

"You have a big day tomorrow, and Eden wants to make sure you're up to it."

One on each side, they pulled him from the chair. The movement caused a grunt of pain to escape his dry lips, and his hands instinctively went to his left side, pressing against the pain as he slowly straightened. But somehow the sharp stab of pain helped clear his mind. When he was upright, although he felt precariously unsteady, the men released their grip. He guessed he posed no real flight risk since he was swaying on his feet and just the movement from sitting to standing had produced small beads of sweat on his forehead. He concentrated on his next question.

"What happens tomorrow?" His voice was weak but more distinct.

"You'll find out soon enough," the nameless man replied, "Take your shirt off."

Neal looked at him in alarm; It might stink of vomit, but he still didn't want to lose it. The man stepped over to a bag that was sitting by the door, and Neal felt himself grow tense. The man turned back, a bandage in hand. "Take your shirt off," he repeated.

Relieved to know the reason for the request, Neal still hesitated. He was pretty sure he couldn't raise his arms to pull it over his head. He tried, but quickly abandoned the effort.

"I don't think I can," he replied honestly.

The man looked at his partner. "Got a knife on you? Cut his shirt off."

Max wasn't happy to have to touch the soiled collar of Neal's shirt-he was the same one who'd complained about the smell-but with a grimace, he did as he was instructed. After helping Neal get his arms free, the man tossed the shirt to the ground in disgust.

"Damn." The second man said as he began to wrap Neal's now exposed midsection. The word had been spoken under his breath; Neal guessed the damage Eden had done was already becoming visible. Finished with his task, he stepped back. "Too tight?" he asked

"No, that's good." Neal took a tentative breath. The pain was less. "Really good. Thank you."

The man didn't respond but moved back to the bag, this time producing clothing. Standing there only his boxers, Neal's look of gratitude was genuine. The man handed him a gray sweat suit. Neal could tell it was going to swallow him whole, but he didn't care. He was sure he was going to have to face Eden again sooner or later, and he'd rather not have to do it in just his underwear.

"Thank you doesn't even begin to cover this." He stepped back and eased himself into the chair. The pants weren't too difficult, but getting the shirt on was more of a challenge. Even though the room was cool, he was sweating by the time he'd finished the task.

After he'd succeeded, he smiled shakily. "Whatever Eden wants me to do tomorrow, I hope it doesn't include squirming in through a ventilation duct."

He had meant it as a joke, since Eden had used him for that in the past, hoping the comment would lead them to reveal what his real job would entail. But the look on their faces told him he'd hit the proverbial nail on the head.

His face fell. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Sorry kid."

He tried to console himself with the fact that if he were going in a ventilation duct that meant he'd be leaving their current location. He had feared Eden needed him to forge documents since that had been his primary job in the past. That was something he'd likely be forced to do here, under guard, which would seriously limit the avenues for escape. Opportunities to get away, or just get word to Peter, improved greatly once he was outside these four walls. That was something. Of course, since breathing was painful he had concerns about his ability to maneuver in tight places.

"How far I'll have to go?" he asked, "In the duct?"

"Eden will tell you what he wants you to know when he wants you to know it," Max said. "Get up."

"Why?" Neal's tone indicated how much he didn't want to move, even as he began to comply with the order. Even wrapped his ribs hurt, in fact, his whole body hurt. It was slow going.

"We're going to walk you down to the bathroom so you can clean up and wash that stench off your face," Max replied. "If you don't give us any trouble, we'll bring you back here, leave you that sleeping bag," he nodded towards the mentioned item by the door, "and let you get some rest. If you cause any problem, we will tie your ass back up and leave you in the chair all night. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Neal said, finally making it to his feet; his hands still wrapped around his sides protectively. "Can you at least tell me if I'll have to navigate between floors or enter through a roof access?" He pleaded. "Crawling vertically through ductwork is one thing; but if I'm going to have to rappel-"

" _Save_ the _questions_ for _Eden_ ," Max growled. "He will be here in the morning."

If his captor had been anyone else, Neal would have probably had this information by the end of their first exchange.

But the fact that it was Terrence Eden had put him off his game. He'd let his emotions get the better of him; he'd reacted without thought to the consequences. He had let his fear, and more importantly his anger, overrun his good sense. He should have handled him just like he would have anyone else. He should have been more focused on the man's every word, looking for the best angle to play, a way out. He should have tried to build rapport, make his kidnapper see him as a fellow criminal and possible ally instead of an enemy. He shouldn't have let him know he was rattled. He should have put on his best smile and convinced him he was all in and more than willing to help with whatever job he needed him to do. He probably couldn't have avoided the first blows of retribution, but he might have lessened the severity and duration of the beating had he responded differently when Eden mentioned the job.

When they left the room, Neal realized they weren't in a basement at all but in a warehouse. He was in a room off a long, wide hallway but at the end, he could see into the larger space. There wasn't any overhead lighting in that area, but the light from the long hallway illuminated a slice of the space. There were some large containers and pallets, and the windows that ran across the top of the wall were dark. There was a small amount of light coming through them, perhaps from an outside security light.

They had passed several closed doors before Neal saw the sign for the restrooms. One of the men pushed open the door, and they entered. There were four stalls, two urinals, and two sinks.

"Go get yourself cleaned up," Max said, nudging Neal forward.

He moved stiffly toward the sink. Once he arrived there, the image that looked back at him from the mirror did nothing to improve his confidence. Hair a mess, nose and chin bloody, it reminded him of another face that had peered back at him from the mirror of a much smaller bathroom in Chicago. A younger, more frightened face. _Danny's_ face.

Eden would be here in the morning. His heart began to pound at the thought of facing the man again. The eyes in the mirror grew wide; he not only looked like Danny, he felt like him, too.

This would not do.

"I'm _not_ Danny, I'm _Neal_ ," he said to himself.

"I don't care who the hell you are," Max snapped, much closer than Neal had realized, "get a move on. I don't have all night."

Neal looked in alarm at the man's reflection in the mirror, realizing in horror that he'd spoken aloud. He had to pull himself together; he'd have to face Eden again, and he couldn't do it acting like a scared kid. That gave Eden all the power; something Neal didn't want ever to do again.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he reached down and turned the on the water, adjusting it to right the temperature. He pulled several lengths of paper towels from the dispenser, wet them, and added a dollop of hand soap.

He washed his face and neck, taking care to remove the crusted blood from his nostrils. Things were not the way they had been before. Eden might not have changed in ten years, but he had. He was Neal Caffrey, and Neal Caffrey could turn any situation to his advantage. He just needed to keep his cool and keep his eyes and ears open. Eden needed him for something tomorrow, and that gave him leverage, something to work with. And also, unlike before, he wasn't alone in the world. He had people in his life; people _would_ be looking for him this time.

Of course, they'd be looking for him because they thought he'd cut his anklet to escape Federal Custody, but at least they'd be looking. _Peter_ would be looking.

When his face was clean, he disposed of the towels and pulled out a fresh length to dry.

He felt a twinge of distress at what Peter must be thinking right now. He was probably regretting that he hadn't sent him back to prison after the whole Fowler mess; maybe even regretting ever having agreed to work with him in the first place. He could just imagine the set of Peter's jaw as he vowed to find him; and this time, he'd say, he'd show no compassion or kindness. He was likely telling the team that he wouldn't just send him back to prison, but bury him under it, when he found him. He hated when Peter was mad at him, but feeling like he'd disappointed him was always worse. What Peter thought of him mattered. He wished it didn't, and he tried to deny it when Mozzie called him on it, but it did.

Now that he'd faced Eden again, he realized why it bothered him so much. There was a time when he wanted nothing more than to please Terrence Eden; to make him proud and win his approval. He had needed it so desperately back then he'd been willing to do almost anything to keep it. It had been a miserable time in his life and he never wanted to feel that way again; trapped into trying to please someone by being someone he wasn't.

He wasn't bad enough to please Terrence Eden, and he wasn't good enough to please Peter Burke.

But disappointed or not, Peter would be looking for him, be determined to find him. And when Peter Burke set his mind to something he did it. That gave him hope.

When he'd tossed those towels as well, he stuck his hands under the water, then ran them through his unruly hair. He turned off the water and inspected his appearance. Better, he thought. More determined and less frightened; more Neal and less Danny. That was a start.

Peter was looking for him; all he had to do was find a way to stay alive long enough for him to find him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

When Neal awakened, he was sore, stiff and cold. A dull ache still pounded in his forehead, but the queasiness of his stomach seemed to have abated. He could only imagine how much worse he'd have felt had he been left in the chair, in his underwear, all night. The wrap around his ribs provided some relief to his discomfort, the sweat suit and the sleeping bag had provided some warmth, and at least he had been able to lay down. He felt grateful that he'd been granted these basic comforts, but he knew it was only because Eden needed him today. He doubted he'd receive such consideration once his time of usefulness had passed. In fact, once that happened he had little doubt that Eden would kill him. Unless he could find a way to convince him he could continue to be useful.

After his captors had left him, his inspection of his prison yielded nothing of use. He guessed the room had been swept clean upon Eden's instructions. The door was bolted from the outside; there wasn't even a knob on the inside and the hinges were tamperproof. Air flow into the room came through a register above the door; no more than six inches by twelve. Even at sixteen, he couldn't have wiggled out that opening. After determining there was no escaping, Neal decided to take advantage of the sleeping bag. An opportunity might present itself tomorrow. The best he could do in the meantime was to get some sleep and be ready when it did. He slept but his rest wasn't peaceful. Dreams plagued him and several times he awakened, certain that he was back in the small apartment in Chicago. It took awhile each time to fall back asleep. After the final, startled awakening, he'd decided he'd had enough and didn't even try to settle back down.

He was lying on his side, curled slightly to keep his ribs at ease. The men had said their boss would be back in the morning. He wasn't sure if it was morning yet; the only light in the room came from the fluorescent panel in the middle of the ceiling. The room had the same level of light now as it had when Eden had beaten him, and when the two men had come to clean him up. Day or night could come and go without any visible indication. After a few moments, he shifted his position and got to his knees, then up to his feet. He had a moment of lightheadedness but it passed after a few seconds. Breathing was less painful than it had been the night before. He moved his arms tentatively to see what his range of motion was and what the pain level would be. Apparently his day's agenda included moving through a ventilation duct.

He had done that quite a few times in the past for Eden; of course, he had done quite a bit of several things during the five months he was part of Eden's crew. The promised lessons in safe cracking began within a week of Neal's moving into the apartment. In addition to his delivery duties three nights a week with Tom, he also met with a man Eden simply called Red. Red was several years older and much nicer than Eden. He was a great teacher, full of encouragement and when needed, patient correction. Red taught him about different models of safes, the small type found in hotel rooms or underneath the counters of stores, as well as the larger wall units one might find in office buildings or private residences. Some safes opened with a key, others by combinations, so along with memorizing the default combinations for each model, he was trained to pick locks as well. Lock picking, Red told him, was a useful skill to have even if you never used it to open a safe. One never knew when they might need on the other side of a locked door. Every lesson started with manuals to study and memorize and ended with the hands-on practice. Neal enjoyed the challenge that safe cracking presented, but more than that, he enjoyed the time he spent with Red. When the man talked about his children and grandchildren, it stirred a longing in Neal, for a family of his own. A place he was wanted, needed and belonged. In his entire life, he had never had that. The day Red announced to Eden that he was the best pupil he'd ever had, Neal had beamed with pride.

Less than a week later, Eden called him into his office. When he arrived, two men, he'd worked with before were also there. They had used him to gain entry into a targeted business, as Eden had said, his small size gave him an advantage that the older, larger men didn't have. After he'd gotten inside through a tiny window or drainage grill, he'd simply found the door and unlocked the deadlocks. That had been the extent of his participation in the robbery. But this time, Eden informed him, it was going to be different.

"Do you remember when I told you I had been looking for the right person for a special project?" Eden asked, "Well this is it."

Their target was a liquor store on East Henning Street. With a wrought iron barred gate at the front and alarms on the windows and both doors, the store wasn't a candidate for the usual smash and grab. Located in a heavily patrolled neighborhood, there wouldn't be time to get in and out before the police arrived on the scene, and certainly not enough time to get inside the safe to the real money. A floor model Sargent and Greenleaf bolted to the ground, it couldn't simply be carried out, either. Because of the challenges the store presented, it had never been successfully hit, and although its large revenue would make it quite a prize, it had been considered out of bounds. Until now. With Danny's agility and slight build, and now trained at safe cracking, Eden was ready to make his move.

With the building plans spread out Eden's desk, the job was explained to him. They had determined a way in, a way that wouldn't trigger the alarms; through a heating vent located in the ceiling at the end of the counter. The opening was small, but so was Danny. The men would get him into an upstairs apartment, and from there, he would work his way down to the main floor into the interior of the store. He'd need to pry loose the vent, drop down to the counter and move on to work on the safe. If he were able to open it, bag the money and escape the way he'd come, it would be a very profitable venture. If he were successful, Eden said, he'd make a lot of money and earn the respect of not only the crew but of him as well. But if anything went wrong, an alarm was triggered, or anyone caught sight of him and called the police, he would be left on his own.

"If you're caught," Eden instructed, "keep your mouth shut; don't tell the police anything. They'll try to scare you, trick you into saying something," He warned, "but you're a minor, and no matter what they say, they can't do much to you. Remember," his voice dropped, "I expect loyalty from you; if you betray that, the police will be the least of your problems."

It was the second time Eden had made that threat, and although he had always taken him at his word, his conversations with Tom had confirmed that Eden was more than willing to follow through if it became necessary. Tom had told him about two former employees who, at different times, had made errors in judgment and paid with their lives. Eden, apparently a boxer in his younger days, had beaten them to death and enjoyed every moment of it. He had did it in front of witnesses, others who worked for him, to make a point and get the word out what happened to anyone who betrayed him. Tom had heard these weren't the only ones; there had been others, but they had happened before his time. These were the two he knew first hand about; Robert had witnessed the first and the second one, a strung out druggie who had ripped off a shipment and partied it away with friends, Tom had seen himself. Eden was fine, and could even be generous if you did what he told you to do. But if you crossed him, Tom warned, he would be brutal. Neal remembered how freaked out he had been just hearing about it; he couldn't imagine having witnessed such a thing.

"I would never do that," Neal assured him. "Anyway," he looked from face to the other and grinned. "I won't _get_ caught."

Eden had laughed at that. "Red says you've put in a lot of hours with this model and shouldn't have any problem. Got everything you'll need?"

Red had helped him assemble the tools of the trade; he nodded.

"Good," Eden said, handing him the plans, "Take this with you and make sure you know how to get where you're going. Meet the guys here tomorrow night, just after midnight. Good luck, Danny, make me proud."

Neal was nervous about the job but excited at the same time. It was his chance to do something big; something that just not anyone could do. It was his chance to really contribute, to stand out, to impress Eden, Red, and even the two he was working with. In the past, they'd treated him more like a trained monkey than a person. They never even asked him to help them; they just went to Eden and requisitioned him. However, with his new, more important role, he hoped that would change.

He studied the building plans that night, counted each turn and opening, and went over everything Red had taught him. Then, he concentrated on the details of the job; how to deal with the little things that were bound to present a problem. How would he keep his tools from clanging in the duct work? What would he need to remove the vent? It likely screwed in from the bottom side. Also, how could he keep the vent from crashing down onto the counter once it was removed? When he felt confident that he had answers to all his questions, he assembled a list of items he'd need to pick up the next day, and went to bed.

The job went off without as much as a hiccup. He got into the building without any problem and moved directly to his appointed task. He hadn't even had to use the stethoscope he had brought in with him. He'd tried the default combination for that model first, and it had worked; the owner had never taken the time to create his own. A common mistake, Red had told him. It happened about thirty percent of the time, so it was always worth a try. He didn't set off an alarm and was in and out faster than anyone had anticipated. He'd even pulled the vent back and tied it in place, leaving the store looking just as it had been left at closing.

The excitement of moving the tumbler as he crouched behind the counter, his heart pounding, was intoxicating. In addition to the excitement and the thrill of achievement, was the look of pride and delight he'd seen on Eden's face when they returned to his office with a little more than eight thousand dollars.

Eden had been more than just pleased; he'd showered him with praise and compliments, and the once skeptical looks in the men's eyes changed to ones of hesitant respect. Before, they seemed to only tolerate his presence because it was necessary; now, they said they were glad he'd joined them and looked forward to working with him in the future. He looked back on that night as a turning point; before that he'd broken the law to survive, for food and shelter. After, it became about more than that; it was about being a part of something. It was the first time he'd ever felt needed, wanted or appreciated. It filled an empty place inside him, the one he felt most intensely when watching families at the park, or listening to Red talk about his grandchildren. Once he experienced that feeling he knew he needed it as much as, if not more, he needed food and shelter. From that time forward he was trapped; not just by Eden's threats and warnings but by something even more binding; his own desperate need to belong somewhere.

He jerked his mind from the past. That was the problem in dealing with Eden; why he's screwed up the first meeting so badly. Seeing the man put him back where he didn't want to be, where he didn't _need_ to be. It brought back memories, and emotions, that shook him inside and made him feel weak. He had to find a way past that; he had to focus on the here and now. That was what mattered, and the only thing he could do something about. The past was the past.

He was not Danny, he was Neal, he told himself, and Eden needed him for a job. That was now.

Whatever the job was, Eden had gone to a lot of trouble to put it into motion. He had found him, arranged for his kidnapping and deactivated his tracking device. None of those were small feats. From the bits and pieces, he'd picked up yesterday, Eden had persuaded, by some means, someone at the Marshal Service to do his bidding. That had taken either serious money or serious leverage. Neal knew that Eden wanted to punish him and the only reason he would have suspended it was because his part in the job was vital. Everything depended on him; the men had said. That was insurance, something to bargain with.

Having removed his thoughts from the past, he concentrated on the future. He decided his ribs were bruised but not broken, so movement might be painful but wouldn't likely puncture a lung; that was unless he had another unpleasant meeting with Eden. That was something to be avoided at all costs.

He was glad he was standing when he heard the padlock on the outside of the door jingle. He took a deep breath and put on his best face and waited to see who was going to enter. If he had any chance of getting out of this situation alive, he had to keep his cool and not let panic overshadow good sense. Even though he told himself he was ready, he still felt himself relax when it was the same two men from the night before, and not Eden, who appeared in the doorway.

"Good," one said, "You're awake. Eden is ready for you."

It was important that he stay focused when he met with Eden; he couldn't afford to make the mistake he'd made this first time. He had to detach from the emotions the man stirred in him, forget the past, and concentrate on the here and now. He would have felt better about the meeting if he'd been wearing one of his own suits instead of a sweat suit that was two sizes too big and made him look more like the sixteen-year-old Danny than the twenty-eight-year-old Neal Caffrey he needed to be. But given the first meeting had taken place in his underwear, he was grateful for the improvement. But a visit to the restroom beforehand would help him feel more composed. And he needed all the help he could get.

"Can I visit the facilities first," his voice was hoarse. "Please?"

Max didn't look pleased with the request, but his partner assented with a quick nod. "Just make it fast."

When they reached the restroom, Neal took care of business at the urinal then stepped over to the sink. He took stock of his appearance which again did little to inspire confidence. His left jaw bone was bruised, and there was a scrape on his chin. The left eye wasn't black yet but was well on its way. He washed his hands, then used his hands to cup up a drink of water. After a couple swallows, he repeated the process but rinsed his mouth, spitting the excess into the sink carefully not to irritate his split lip. He bent down, splashed cold water on his face and then, just as he had the night before, wet his hands and smoothed down his hair. He did all of this quickly, and when he was finished, he looked at the man who had allowed the visit.

"Thank you."

Just like the first time Neal had offered thanks to the man, he got no response. He was then escorted further down the hallway to a room with Break Room in white letters on the glass of the door. Peering through, Neal could see Eden was already there; he was standing behind a large desk inspecting paperwork that was spread out on its surface. Neal guessed that if he were going to be squirming into some building through the duct work, there would be schematics and building plans for him to memorize. Neal dropped his hand from his side and, in spite of the bite of pain it caused, pulled back his shoulders and straightened his posture. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting every bit of tension drain from his face. He would not enter the room as Danny; he would enter as Neal. That was then; this was now.

Max observed his efforts at fortification with what seemed mild amusement, then rapped on the door. Eden looked up and motioned for them to enter. Max reached down and turned the door knob. He pushed it open and spoke quietly into Neal's ear. "After you, _Danny._ "

Neal didn't let the barb effect him and stepped through the doorway with an air of confidence. He moved across the space toward Eden, keeping his head up and his eyes focused on his adversary's face. He had to take charge of this meeting right from the beginning. He had to let Eden know he was dealing with Neal Caffrey and not the kid he'd known before.

"I think we got off to a bad start, Mr. Eden," he said as he approached the table. "Maybe we could try a do-over." He put on his best smile and extended his hand across the surface. "I'm Neal Caffrey. I understand you have a job for me."


	8. Chapter 8

_FYI: The first three chapters of this story takes place on Saturday afternoon when Peter realizes that Neal is missing. The following chapters follow Neal's POV through to that same Saturday afternoon. They will converge soon. Sorry if that wasn't clear within the story content._

 _I appreciate all those who follow, favorite, read and review my stories. :)_

 **Chapter Eight**

Neal wasn't sure how Eden would respond to his new approach, but it couldn't be any worse than he'd responded to his first. There was a snort of laughter from behind him at his words, and Eden shot a warning look past him that silenced the guilty party. But when Eden's eyes darted back to Neal's face he seemed more amused than irritated; he had always appreciated confidence.

"A do over, huh?" Amused or not, he didn't extend his hand, so Neal let his drop. "You don't really think that's possible, do you, given our history?"

"I don't know," Neal replied smoothly. "That's the thing about history; it's in the past. I vote we leave it there and move on."

"Some things are hard to move on from, Danny." Eden countered.

"Like I said, I haven't been Danny in a long time," Neal said, "I'm older, wiser and much less idealistic."

"I guess a few years in prison will do that to a person. But I have to admit," his lips curled in more a sneer than a smile, "I found it ironic that of all the crimes you've committed, the feds would get you on forgery."

He would find that ironic, Neal thought. He had originally thought that is what Eden had grabbed him for; his ability to forge documents. Of all the work he'd done for Eden back in the day, this, once Eden had discovered his knack for it, had been his bread and butter. Eden had stumbled upon this particular hobby of his during the time he was working with Red. Even after his success in the robbery aspect of the business, his primary duties remained to create documents for Eden and his various associates.

It was this practice, as well as the upgrade in materials Eden provided, that had allowed him to create the documents that made Danny into Neal.

Neal had returned home one afternoon to find Eden in his apartment. He was sitting at his table, looking through an assortment of documents Neal had accumulated during his pickpocketing activities. He had Social Security Cards-yes, some idiots actually carried the card in their wallets-Student Ids, some with photos some without, security badges from everything from Chicago Memorial to the UPS Distribution Center in Arlington Heights. He even had one French passport.

Forging documents took attention to detail, patience, and concentration; it filled up his afternoons and kept his mind occupied. He would use the originals as guides and spent hours trying to duplicate them. Some he couldn't reproduce with his current tools and materials, but others he could do pretty well. Student ID cards and a variety of Diner and Specialty discount cards were simple. More difficult were birth certificates and diplomas. The correct paper was always a challenge and sometimes he even had to mix his own inks to get the right color. After getting those two components, he would spend hours mimicking a pattern, design or border, needed to replicate a document. They weren't perfect, but some were very good, and the signature was always a spot on match. He found the process almost therapeutic.

When Neal found Eden at this table, it wasn't so much the lifted documents that caused him concern. It was the other ones; his copies. He wasn't sure how Eden would respond to his extracurricular activities.

"Impressive collection you have here," he said when Neal entered. "It seems you have a skill you didn't tell me about." He picked up a social security card with the original name blatantly missing. This had been a new project for him; he had carefully removed the name with Nail Polish Remover and a q-tip. It was a slow process, but patience paid off. All he had to do was add a name, and he'd have another convincing document of identification. Just having that card in his possession was a crime. Of course, it wasn't the NYPD sitting at his table; it was Terrence Eden.

"Very good," he said, eyeing the card, "Just waiting for the name, I see." He looked at Neal. "Is this for personal use or you moonlighting, Danny?"

"Just trying it out," Neal replied, "to see if I can do it." He knew how Eden felt about anyone doing business in his neighborhood without his permission or protections. He had his hand in everything from loan sharking to prostitution, to gambling. He didn't run the operations, but he profited from them. That was the cost of doing business in his area of influence. "I do a pretty good birth certificate," Neal volunteered hesitantly, "and if I can do a Social Security Card to go with it, those two documents can get you anything else you need. Drivers' license, state identification card."

"Both good first steps in creating a credible identity." Eden set the card down on the table and got to his feet. "Of course," His tone changed slightly, taking on a bit of an edge, "you should have told me about this, Danny. I don't appreciate you keeping things from me."

"It's just a hobby," Neal said quickly, "I would have told you once I knew I could do a good job. I'm still practicing."

"Well, practice makes perfect," he said, moving toward the door. "I'm sure Red has told you that more times than one."

"Yes, sir, he has," Red said to be the best, you had to practice until you could open a safe in your sleep. After hours of working with the old man, Neal could still see the tumbler of the safe when he closed his eyes and, many nights, his dreams were spent slowly turning the dial, four left, three right, two left, back once, listening for each faint, yet distinct, CLICK.

Eden passed by Neal and opened the door, but turned back. "I might have you do a little of that practice work for me now and then, and see how it goes."

"Of course, Mr. Eden," Neal replied. "I'll do whatever you need me to."

A week later, Eden supplied information for a set of documents for a middle-aged man who, for whatever reason, needed to establish a new identity. Neal took his time with every step, and after a week had produced his best work to date. Eden had been pleased with the results which had, of course, pleased Neal. With time, Neal's skill grew and before long, he was providing a variety of documents to Eden and his associates. Eden never shared what they were for or why they were needed, and Neal didn't ask. He simply did as he was told.

Right up until, of course, he _hadn't_. That had been the cause of the severe beating he'd received all those years ago; he had asked questions. It was a topic he felt it unwise to revisit. Not if he was trying to establish some rapport with Eden.

"Of all the crimes I've _allegedly_ committed," Neal corrected. "That's what they are, you know, without proof. Suppositions and allegations. If you've looked into my _alleged_ crimes, then you know I bring a lot to the table. If you are willing to let bygones be bygones, as they say, you might find Neal Caffrey a valuable asset; not only for this job," he motioned at the items on the table, "but for future operations as well."

Edens expression was one of skepticism. "After all of the spouting off you did yesterday, you expect me to believe you want to work for me now?"

" _Want_ has little to do with it," Neal retorted, "I didn't _want_ to work for the FBI, but it served a purpose; it got me out of prison." He shrugged. "As far as my response yesterday, I was still under the influence of whatever you had your guys dose me with and wasn't thinking clearly. Now, I see we can both benefit from a less antagonistic arrangement."

Eden studied him for a moment, unsure as to how to respond to his change in attitude. Neal counted that as success; anything that made Eden pause with uncertainty was a win. "Very pragmatic of you," Eden observed.

"I've had to be," Neal stated. "You are a smart man, and the Mr. Eden I remember was always looking to capitalize on any opportunity that presented itself. Well," he again flashed his trademark smile, "here I am. Killing me might provide some instant gratification, but keeping me alive is a much better investment."

Neal could see Eden was still questioning the sudden shift, not sure if he should buy the change of heart or not. But he _wanted_ to; Neal could almost see the wheels turning as he ran through the ways in which he could exploit the many talents of Neal Caffrey. When he responded, Neal knew he was at least tempted. "I'll admit, I could use someone like you as I expand my business interests, but," he shook his head as if having a second thought, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. First things first," Eden gestured to the table. "Take a look."

Neal glanced down at its contents. He had been correct in his surmising; building plans and detailed maintenance schematics covered the surface. That wasn't all. Apparently he was needed for more than just an entry man in this venture. Neal reached down and picked up a Sargent and Greenleaf 6730 Series Manual. "Been awhile since I saw one of these."

"I thought you'd recognize the model," Eden nodded at the booklet Neal was now flipping through, "You could get into one of those faster than Red, even in his heyday." He paused before adding. "You were his prize pupil, you know." Neal could feel his eyes on him as he waited for a response. When it didn't come, he continued. "He died four years ago. Heart attack."

Eden knew he had been fond of the old man, and he guessed the news was meant to shake him, to see if Danny would peek out from the exterior of Neal Caffrey. It didn't happen.

"Sorry to hear that." Neal's tone was indifferent as he glanced up at Eden, keeping his focus on the task at hand. "I take it this job of yours includes me opening a safe?"

"Yes it does," Eden replied. "A safe holding six million dollars in unmarked diamonds."

It was Neal's turn to be surprised. Six million in diamonds was a much larger job than he had expected. If its success depended on him, that was a good bargaining chip.

"Unmarked diamonds are a rare find," Neal stated, "A dealer's first move is to have them laser inscribed and registered immediately after they're cut."

"That is usually the practice but due to scheduling issues, sometimes there is a delay," Eden said, "which is the case here. The diamonds are scheduled to be inscribed and registered Monday morning. That's why you are going to steal them tonight."

Eden must have an inside source. There was no other way he could have such information. "Exactly where am I stealing them from?"

Eden flipped a page on one of the documents, revealing the name of the target. "The Danford Building, in Queens," he supplied. "The Danford Diamond Exchange occupies part of the top floor. The safe is in the CEO's office, behind a painting of a Botswanian Sunset."

Definitely an inside source. Eden had always been a thorough planner, and if he had that information, he probably had a lot more. "I suppose you have a breakdown for building security, guard rotations, camera locations?" Neal rattled off, shuffling through the paperwork on the table. "And what kind of security do the Danford Offices themselves have?"

"Questions only a thief would know to ask," He pulled out a chair and took a seat. "but we've already got everything mapped out. Sit," he motioned to the chair across from him. "All you have to do is memorize your route and accomplish your tasks on a very specific schedule."

So his take on the job itself wasn't needed. With an inside person, he guessed Eden had all the input he needed. He was just a final, albeit important, piece of the plan. "I see," Neal did as he was bidden, taking a seat without the slightest indication of the discomfort it caused him. "Tell me what you have planned."

"I will tell you what I have planned for you," he looked past Neal to his escorts. "Max, go get us some lunch, will you? I skipped breakfast, and we have a lot to go over." He glanced at Neal in amusement. "Any preferences? Still a cheeseburger guy?"

"I'd prefer something a bit lighter," Neal replied. "A salad maybe? And a couple of bottled waters would be nice, too." He wasn't hungry, but he was thirsty. A couple of sips of water he'd managed in the restroom hadn't even relieved the dryness of his mouth and he guessed the dull ache in his head was partially due to dehydration.

"You heard the man." Max left, leaving his partner at his silent vigil by the door and Eden got back to business. He handed Neal an envelope. "You will be attending an Investment Opportunity Seminar this afternoon at the Danford Building."

Neal raised his eyebrows at the unexpected development and opened the envelope. It contained an invitation to the before mention seminar. " _Douglas Price_?"

Neal had come to terms with the fact that he was going to access the building the old fashioned way; through an air vent or elevator access. Since the Danford office was on the top floor, he'd guessed he'd be coming in from the roof. But apparently he would be going in through the front door.

"Yes, an investment broker from Chicago. You are on the guest list."

"How convenient," Neal commented, "any chance someone at this seminar actually _knows_ the real Mr. Price?"

"Unlikely, since he doesn't exist," Eden said with some pride. "And you will have all the identification needed to get in. The Danford Diamond Exchange is a co-host of this event, and they are showcasing several of their most impressive diamonds to entice investors. So a photo ID, in addition to the invitation, is required to get in."

Neal thought Eden had his men strip him down to his underwear to intimidate and humiliate him, but he realized now that there had been a more practical reason. Douglas Price would need a suit to get into the seminar, and Eden hadn't wanted it damaged.

Neal could think of a half a dozen reasons why walking in the front door, under camera surveillance and heavy security, was not tactically a good plan. One glaring one was that an event like this would likely require extra security, and extra security often included off-duty members of New York's Finest. Who, by now, Neal guessed, had all received a BOLO for Neal Caffrey, escaped felon. He'd be lucky to get through the lobby without being arrested. Since that would likely have a better outcome than what awaited him if he made it out and returned to Eden, he kept his thoughts to himself. Neal wondered if Eden had ever been a master planner, or if, at sixteen, he'd just been easily impressed.

"Well then I'm going to need my suit back," Neal informed him, holding up the invitation, "because this says business attire and I don't think sweats qualify."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Eden assured him that his suit, pressed and ready for business, would be delivered to him later that afternoon, along with the credentials he would need to present himself as Douglas Price. "So," Neal began, "how is Douglas Price planning to duck out of the seminar and access the Danford Offices?"

Eden slid a paper with handwritten notes across the table to Neal. "It's all here," he said. "Everything you will need to do, and the time at which you will need to do it. Timing is critical; you'll be equipped with an ear bud to help you stay on track."

Neal skimmed the page. "Since the primary focus of security will be in the lobby, and keeping the seminar secure," Neal noted scanning the document, "there will be little attention given to the rest of the building."

"They won't be a continuous presence of a guard in the security office during registration; everyone will be on the floor. As you see, there is a rotation schedule there that you have to work around. Once you lift a security pass, you will be able to get in there and upload a program to interrupt digital images from being saved to the off-site servers. I'll give you the zip drive with the program on it this afternoon as well. That same pass will get you into the maintenance room on the top floor. That is where you will find the tools you need to open the safe."

From there, Neal would enter the ventilation system and move through the vent until he reached the opening in the office that contained the safe. According to Eden, investors were being invited to the main office for Wine and Cheese after the seminar and because of the set up for that; the only security in effect would be at the door. Neal would be able to enter the office, open the safe, remove the diamonds, and return through the opening to the maintenance room without setting off any alarms.

Neal listened as Eden outline the plan, and also read through the written instructions. Everything was very detailed and timed right down to the minute. Neal had already determined there had to be a source inside the Danford Offices, but items left for him in a restricted area as well as the specific details on security measures for this event indicated a member of the building's security was probably on the payroll as well.

Even though the program he was uploading would keep images from being recorded, it wouldn't prevent them from appearing on the screens in the security room. There was forty-five minute period while guests were being screened and checked in, that no one would be monitoring the room. That was the time frame in which Neal had to work: to get up to the top floor, get into the safe, and get back downstairs.

But several things didn't make sense; there were steps that generated risks and didn't seem to benefit the job in any way. He saw no reason to pose as a guest at the seminar to gain entrance to the building. A rooftop access would be a less risky option; any exterior camera could be blocked with some well-placed bird excrement, and he'd never show up on interior cameras if he kept to the duct work. With all the attention on the bottom floor, he could be in and out, and no one would be the wiser until they opened the safe and found the diamonds missing. The only real challenge would be getting to the roof and getting back down, but given the right equipment, he could manage that even if it did prove painful given the state of his rib cage. No one would have to know Neal Caffrey had ever been in the building.

But this plan left little doubt to the fact. It not only left dozens of witnesses to his being present but also placed him on the security footage. Even if the recordings stopped after he delivered the program, he still would be on it up until then. Hell, it would catch him using a stolen badge to open the door to the security office. Since no one would be monitoring the cameras during the robbery, the security footage wouldn't be looked unless there was an incident. If everything went as planned, no one would be the wiser until Monday morning. Neal Caffrey would be identified as the culprit, which Neal had guessed was Eden's plan all along. The entire act of disabling cameras seemed pointless.

He didn't believe that a job so thoroughly researched and with substantial inside sources would have unnecessary steps. There had to be reasons for the added risks; he was missing something. Or more likely Eden wasn't _telling_ him something.

"Once you're back on the ground floor," Eden was saying, "You will exit the building here," he pointed at the Southeastern Emergency Exit on the floor plan. "Go around the corner to your right, cross the street, and we will pick you up there."

Neal looked at him in surprise. Emergency exits sounded alarms and Eden had said nothing about them being deactivated. "Why not just walk out the way I came in?"

"Because you are being told to exit here," Eden replied. "That's all you need to concern yourself with; doing what you are told to do."

"Exiting here will set off an alarm," Neal pressed, "and alert security. They'll check the footage to see who activated the door and realize the system has been tampered with. They'll know-" He stopped at Eden's expression; he already knew all this. "You want the alarm to sound, don't you?" Neal asked, "Are diamond even in the safe or am I stealing a bag of rocks someone left in their place?

Neal had seen this before; a robbery arranged to take place during an event, with dozens of people to witness the crime and the victim's shock and horror at the loss. The stolen item was usually a forged replica of a heavily insured piece of art which the owner had already discretely sold. The owner then cashed in twice: once when the item was sold and again when the insurance company paid out for the loss.

Eden didn't immediately answer, and if an answer was coming it was halted by the return of Max. "Ah," Eden said instead, "lunch is here."

Eden moved a stack of paper aside, and Max placed their take out on the table. A moment later, he set the requested water down in front of Neal. Thoughts of food didn't move him, but the idea of water did; he took it immediately. The bottle was cold in his hand, and he took a sip before speaking.

"I've seen this kind of job before," Neal continued as Eden divvied out the lunch; what appeared to be a stacked pastrami sandwich for himself and a salad in a clear container for Neal. "In fact, I was hired for one. I stole a Giacometti painting, or actually a forgery of a Giacometti painting, from an estate in Belgium once."

Eden's eyebrows raised. "Hired to steal a forgery, huh?" He applied a packet of spicy mustard to his sandwich. "Did you know it was a forgery when you stole it?"

"Of course, I did," Neal smiled, digging around his salad with fake gusto, "I'm the one who painted it."

"You stole your own forgery?" Eden mused, "Why?"

"It was an insurance fraud scam," Neal took a bite of salad. He didn't want to eat but wanted to appear at ease to do so. "I created the forgery, brokered the sale of the original on the black market, and then stole the copy during the owner's daughter's wedding. The Father of the Bride was the man who hired me, and he paid me well for my trouble."

"That wasn't in your file," Eden remarked.

Neal wondered how he had access to his file, but he guessed if he had a Marshal in his pocket he'd have access to everything the Federal Government had on Neal Caffrey.

"Trust me," he grinned, "the best stuff _isn't_."

His remark elicited a chuckle from the man. "Impressive trifecta," Eden granted, "but this isn't an insurance scam. The diamonds are in the safe. But you are correct about one thing; I _do_ want the alarm to sound and the robbery to be discovered. And I want Neal Caffrey identified as the person responsible."

That, of course, did not surprise him; he'd suspected all along that he was being set up to take the blame for whatever crime Eden was contemplating. But he saw no reason to cut things so close; to alert security so quickly.

"They'll identify me Monday morning when the robbery is discovered, and they see my face all over the security footage. So why the hurry? Attention will just make the diamonds harder to move."

"Because if a break in is suspected during off-hours certain security protocols will kick in; every security and computer system in the building will be shut down and then rebooted. And that is exactly what we need to happen; a building-wide reboot."

His smug look told Neal he had been correct; there was something else going on at the Danford Building. A system reboot was necessary for activating installed spy or malware, or any program created to siphon off sensitive financial information from existing databases. With an idea of what it was the Eden hadn't been telling him, Neal reached down and rifled through the paperwork for a specific document: the building directory. On the top floor, along with The Danford Diamond Exchange Company, was the Bradford & Donnelly Wealth Management Group. Neal had heard their name before; they dealt with only the richest of the rich and didn't concern themselves with how their clients made their money. They had, however, been forced to cooperate with the FBI when one of their clients had been under investigation. Neal hadn't worked that case, but he'd heard about it.

His theft of six million in diamonds was just the means to gain access to financial data so Eden and his mysterious cohorts could steal twenty times that amount. His crime would set security protocols in motion and provide a distraction for the real job, the cyber-robbery of Bradford & Donnelly.

"I see," Neal continued to eat his lunch in spite of the fact that his stomach was churning. "I'm not the only one breaking into an office during this seminar, am I? That's the reason you want the camera's disabled. The real action is taking place across the hall, isn't it?"

"Very good," Eden said, "you always were a quick one. No, you aren't the _only_ one," he confirmed, "but you are the only one anyone is going to know about. The top floor of the building will be off limits while the crime scene is processed. Those attending the seminar will be questioned, and everyone will be gathering information on Neal Caffrey, the man who escaped Federal custody and stole six million dollars worth of diamonds. No one is going to give the offices of Bradford & Donnelly a second thought."

"Your thief isn't _stealing,_ " Neal continued, "he's hacking into their computer and installing a trojan; when the system resets, you'll be able to access the accounts from off-site." Maybe Eden was a master planner after all. With the offices locked down, he'd have hours, maybe even all weekend, to transfer funds out of those accounts into his own. He looked at Eden with reluctant respect. "That's actually a really good plan."

Eden's brow furrowed at his tone. "You sound surprised, Danny; you shouldn't be. You know I never go into anything without a _really good_ plan."

"But this plan only works," he picked up the list of instructions, "if I do all of the things you've written out for me." He paused before adding, "Which I will do; _if_ you agree to my terms."

Danny's response in the past had always been automatic compliance to whatever Eden wanted, but Neal was determined to show him that was no longer the case. He expected Eden to be furious at his audacity but for some reason he wasn't.

"Your _terms_?" He seemed more amused than angry which made Neal strangely uncomfortable. "Are you actually trying to _bargain_ with me _?"_

"My terms are reasonable," he continued, refusing to let his doubt deter him."First, I want things settled between us, and the slate wiped clean. And secondly, I will need some financial consideration. This job is going to burn Neal Caffrey; I'll have to start over, new city new name. Two million in unmarked diamonds will make that transition a bit easier."

"I think you've misjudged your position here, _Danny,"_ Eden laughed contemptuously. "You _will_ do everything you're told and I might, _might,"_ he emphasized, eyes narrowing, _"_ consider letting you live when it's done. So if I were you, I'd concentrate my energy on memorizing that list and hope I'm in a generous mood when the job is finished."

Neal's temper flared at his dismissive tone. Usually, he'd have stifled any reaction but in spite of his best efforts to be otherwise, he was _not_ at his best. He was tired, his head hurt and just being in Eden's presence made him physically sick.

"If you're as likely as not to kill me when this is over," he retorted angrily, "why should I make you a rich man before you do it? If I'm dead either way, I'd just as soon die telling you to go to _hell_."

"I believe you mean that," Eden conceded, "And you _have_ changed; you're more ballsy but _still_ foolish." His look was one of disdain. "Do you really believe I'd plan a job that depended on you if I didn't have a way to make sure you'd do as you're told? I learned that lesson the hard way."

That, he knew, was in reference to the job he'd been preparing for before circumstances required his flight from Chicago. Eden had given him a manual containing the specifications for a specific safe, challenging him to study it. After that, Eden had taken him to an abandoned building where he found a safe, a slightly different model but very similar, to the once he'd been studying. It was time for hands-on practice. Each time he opened the safe, Eden would reset the combination and make him try again. His skill grew; he got faster and faster. Eden was pleased with his progress, and Neal was pleased that _he_ was pleased.

Neal knew the job Eden was preparing him for was bigger than usual. Always a careful planner, he seemed even more so about this one. At Neal's inquiries during their safe-cracking session, he'd been told he'd get more details closer to the time. All he had to concern himself with was his ability to open the safe quickly once he was standing in front of it. As it turned out, Neal never found himself standing in front of that particular safe.

"Max," Eden called past Neal. "show him the clip from this morning." At his words, a feeling of dread accompanied the sick feeling in the pit of Neal's stomach.

Max approached and positioned his cell phone so Neal could see the screen. On it was the image of a young boy. He was sitting in a chair, trussed up much the way Neal had found himself the evening before. Even the room looked very similar. Neal guessed he too was being held in the warehouse. Max hit the arrow on the screen, and the video began to play. Silent at first, the boy held up the New York Times and started speaking. Max pressed the side of the phone, raising the volume so that Neal could hear the boy's words.

"... _haven't hurt me_ ," the eyes were fearful as they flickered up to what Neal guessed was the face of his captor, then back to the phone, " _and they won't as long as everything goes right. Just stay home and keep quiet,_ " the eyes flickered again, " _and they'll let me go tomorrow afternoon_." There was a pause. _"I love you, mom_."

When the clip ended, Max removed the phone and stepped back to his post. Eden's look was one of triumph. "That was the proof of life video we sent to his mother this morning," Eden explained. "She's a programmer at SecureAlert."

He recognized the name; SecureAlert was the RFID firm the Federal Government contracted with for the monitoring devices used to track prisoners. He and Mozzie had done a lot of research on that company. The snatches of conversation he'd overheard between his kidnappers now made more sense; this was the _she_ they were talking about. And she _did_ have a lot at stake, he thought, her son's _life._

Neal kept his voice steady. "You kidnapped her son to force her to turn off my tracking device?"

"She did more than that," Eden informed him. Before she deactivated it, she created a program to make data from your device run in a continuous loop; anyone checking on your whereabouts this weekend will think you are still in that nice apartment of yours."

Neal felt suddenly lightheaded; if the tracking data said he was at Riverside Drive, then Peter wasn't looking for him. He didn't even know he was gone.

"She's done _her_ part to save his life," Eden continued. "Now it's up to you to do yours, or he dies."

"It's my life I'm bargaining for here," Neal said, "I don't care about what happens to some kid I've never met."

"Really?" Eden seemed unconvinced. "Well, I'll have Max take you down the hall and introduce you," he said. "and if you _still_ feel that way, he can kill the kid and go find someone you _do_ care about." His eyes narrowed. "Like that nice lady you rent from or maybe that little bald friend of yours."

Eden wasn't only willing to kill the kid but anyone else it took to make Neal do his bidding. He'd thought all he had to do was to stall, to buy time until Peter found him. Even if Peter didn't track him down before the time for the job came, he had hoped he'd be identified once he entered the lobby of the Danford Building. But no one knew he was missing; there were no APBs or BOLOs. He'd never thought he'd actually have to go through with the robbery, but now he realized he didn't have much of a choice.

Having a better idea of what was really going on, several things on his list of instructions made more sense now. Still, anyone looking at this crime from the outside, without that insight, was sure to have questions about some of the movements, the actions he was going to take. Especially if the _right_ person was looking at it.

"There's no need to get nasty," Neal capitulated. "I'll do it. Just the way you've written it down."

"That's a wise decision," Eden was pleased with his compliance. "I'm sure you are aware," he continued, "that I have several sets of eyes in the Danford Building, and they will be on you this afternoon. If you deviate from the plan or try anything stupid, I'll know. Remember that."

Peter Burke knew everything about every alleged crime he'd ever committed. He knew his favorite foods, his favorite music, and even his shoe size. He knew how his mind worked, how he could construct a crime or take one apart. It was sometimes frightening how often the man could anticipate his moves before he even made them. That of course, was why he'd been able to catch him, twice. The only consolation in being forced to participate in a robbery against his will, that blatantly left his face and prints stamped all over it, was that there was no way in hell Peter would ever believe it had been his idea.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Were you able to track Neal's phone?" Peter asked as he approached Jones' desk.

Except for the two of them, the White Collar offices were deserted just as they should have been on a Saturday afternoon. Peter had picked his phone up three times on the way from Riverside Drive to make the calls he needed to make, but he hadn't made any of them. He told himself there was no reason to get everyone in an uproar if he could find Neal quickly, but the reality of the situation was that even though _he'd_ just found out about it, Neal had been missing for nearly twenty-four hours. If he was running, he could be anywhere by now and if he'd been kidnapped, the chances of recovering him would have drastically fallen in that time period. Walking past Neal's desk, neatly squared away for the weekend, Peter had gotten a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was a very real chance that he'd never see Neal sitting there again, leaning back in his chair like a cocky schoolboy, tossing that silly rubber band ball of his. He had pushed that thought out of his mind, hoping against hope that Jones would have something for them to work with.

"No, I wasn't" Jones replied, looking up from his desk, "the battery must be dead. But I did get its last location."

"Where?" A last location was at least somewhere to _start._

"I have it at 93 14th Street-that's a block away from June's-at 5:38 yesterday afternoon." Peter had hoped for something a bit more recent; that was only moments after June had seen the black SUV pull away from the curb. Jones looked at him in question. "But why use his phone to find him, boss? He has a tracking device strapped to his foot."

At Peter's silence, Jones looked concerned. "Doesn't he?"

"As far as I know he does," Peter said, "But I have reason to believe it might be transmitting false information. That's why I wanted to use the GPS on his phone; to verify his location."

Jones didn't look pleased and after a moment of typing at this keyboard, he spoke. "According to his tracker, he's," Jones frowned, studying the screen. Peter glanced at the now familiar layout of Neal's apartment on Jones' computer.

"In the bed," Peter supplied, knowing full well Neal was not in the bed, nor even in his apartment for that matter.

"Then just go over there and verify-" Jones stopped and looked at Peter in sudden understanding. He pursed his lips. "You've already been there, haven't you?"

"Yes," Peter confessed, "and even though the tracking information said he was there, he wasn't."

"So you figured you'd try to locate him by his phone," Jones supplied, now seeing the problem more clearly. "Have you contacted the Marshal Service?"

"Not yet," Peter replied. When Jones' eyebrows raised questioningly, he continued. "I just want to see if I can find him first."

"Look, boss," Jones protested. "if the anklet isn't giving accurate readings, you have to alert the Marshal Service. Maybe it's just a malfunction, and they can reset it or something."

"It's not malfunctioning," Peter said. He knew what he was going to say was going to sound bad. It _was_ bad. But he'd already pulled Jones into it, and if he were going to get his help, he'd have to tell him what they were dealing with. "It's operating on a half-hour loop. Every half hour, it starts over and plays the same twenty-nine minutes over again."

"A loop?" Jones stared at him incredulously. "How long have you known this?"

"I called you after I found out," Peter looked at his watch, "so forty-five minutes, give or take?" He knew it was give; he'd suspected a full half hour before he'd made the call. "I called you, and then went to his apartment just to be sure."

"So his tracker's been tampered with, and his phone is dead." Jones' eyes narrowed. "Caffrey's in the wind, isn't he, Boss?"

"He's _missing,_ " Peter corrected, "right now that's all I know. Mozzie and June don't think he ran; they think someone took him."

" _Took_ him?" It was the second time Jones had echoed Peter's words. "Of course, that's what they'd say," he scoffed. "They'd say anything to keep him out of trouble."

"Yes, they would," Peter agreed, "but I don't think that's what's going on here; I believe they're sincere. Mozzie is the one who tipped me off that something was wrong. He called the house looking for Neal. If he hadn't, I'd have never given the tracking data a second thought. He also gave the number to Neal's other phone. See if we have better luck getting a location from it."

Neal might disable his FBI phone, but he'd have no reason to disable the other one. He'd never dream that Mozzie would give the Feds the number to his burner phone; that went against everything _Mozzie_. That, of course, spoke to the level of concern the little guy was experiencing with this situation.

Eyebrows raised, he did it again. " _Other_ phone?" Three times was enough.

"Please, Jones," Peter snapped, his stress level increasing with each passing moment, "Stop _repeating_ everything I say. I know you're not an idiot and know as well as I do that Neal carries two phones. Check the number. See if you can get a location, a text, a call, anything that might tell us what's going on here."

"Okay, boss," he said, "Give me the number."

Peter read the digits and waited impatiently.

"Can't track this one, either," Jones said after a couple of moments, "but the last location is the same as the other one: 93 14th Street." He looked up at Peter, brows furrowed. "There's no way batteries in two separate phones died at the same time," he commented. "Someone's removed them so the phones can't be traced."

"Can you get anything else?" Peter asked, "Texts, a call log?"

"I don't know," Jones said, "these phones are tricky, depends on what company issued the numbers. Let me see if it's through any of the major carriers." The moments seemed to pass slowly as Jones' fingers flew on the keyboard. It took a few minutes, and a few dead ends before he was able to get something.

"Here we go," Jones said, then after a moment, "Surprisingly little activity on this phone. If this is any indication of Caffrey's life outside the office, it's pretty non-existent. No voice mail or text messages," he continued, "and calls only to one number; the same number that's called him five times since yesterday evening." He looked up at Peter. "I'd hazard a guess that's Mozzie."

"Yeah," Peter confirmed. "he's tried to call him but couldn't get an answer."

He'd wanted a lead; a text or call that would give him something to go on, but part of him was relieved that there was nothing incriminating on Neal's phone; anytime he pulled up a rock in his CI's life he feared what he might find. He didn't want to believe that Neal had conned him, had broken their deal and run. But the alternative to that wasn't good either. If Neal had run, at least he was alive. If he hadn't, and someone had taken him, that wasn't necessarily a given.

"Well, there's nothing helpful here, either," Jones confessed. "What makes June and Mozzie think someone _took_ him?" He asked. "Other than not wanting him to be a fugitive on the run?"

"June said that two men approached Neal on the curb when he arrived home after work yesterday," Peter told him, "They were talking, she looked away, and when she looked back, they were leaving, and Neal was nowhere in sight."

"And she thinks they _kidnapped_ him?" Jones asked skeptically. "Did she give you a description of them, of their vehicle?"

"Dark suits, dark glasses. Black SUV. They _looked_ like agents," Peter informed him reluctantly, Mozzie's words still playing in his mind. "June thought I'd sent someone to pick him up for some reason; that's why she didn't pay that much attention." He shook his head. "When Neal didn't show for a meeting last night, Mozzie just thought he was working late, but when he called the house this afternoon and talked to Elizabeth, he realized something was wrong. He went to June's, found out about the mysterious agents Neal had left with, and deduced that Neal had been kidnapped; either by some government agency or people posing as such."

"That sound like Mozzie," he said, "But it's more likely Caffrey found a way to beat the anklet and decided to run, and those guys were his ride out of town. I'd guess if you haven't called the Marshal Service you haven't notified Hughes, yet, either have you?"

"No."

Peter knew that he was letting his personal feelings interfere with his job, and Jones' expression said he knew it as well. It was the reason interaction outside the office between agents and CI's was so strongly discouraged. Peter understood the wisdom of those unspoken rules. Criminal Informants were that; _criminals._ And as such, they could not be trusted to simply abide by the rules they were given. They had to be closely monitored and controlled; boundaries had to be set and strictly enforced. Leniency or leeway was likely to be exploited and therefore shouldn't be granted. That was the job of a handler. Having a personal connection with a CI, seeing them as anything other than an asset to be managed, would only make it more difficult to do the job effectively.

But things with he and Neal had started off outside the rules from the beginning. They'd had _some_ kind of personal connection well before Neal became his CI. Take out sent to stakeouts, cards on holidays and birthdays. For some reason still unfathomable to Peter, Neal had sought a relationship with the man pursuing him. That connection was the reason the agreement had been proposed, and taken up, in the first place. But during the course of working together, it had grown to be more than just a connection; it had become a friendship of sorts. Of course, he'd never intended to be friends with Neal Caffrey; it had just kind of slipped up on him.

"You need to call him, and the Marshal Service," Jones pressed. "They might be able to reset the tracker. If he'd cut it, they'd already have been alerted so he must still have it on. But I doubt that will be the case for long. If they can get a location, we might be able to find him before he disappears. If he hasn't already."

Peter knew that what Jones was saying was true. He also knew that a call to the Marshals should have been made the minute he'd suspected something was wrong with the tracking data. Now, better than an hour and a half had passed since he realized Neal was gone and the call was still unmade.

"Jones," A thought had suddenly occurred to him. "if the phones were at 93 14th Street at 5:38 yesterday afternoon, then most likely Neal was there too. That would have been just after June saw the black SUV leaving her house. What traffic cams are in that area?"

"There are red light cameras," Jones said, "so if they ran a traffic light we might be able to get a plate."

"You can check," Peter said, "But I doubt they did. Everything was quiet. June didn't hear any altercation, and they didn't speed away from the curb."

It sounded more like a friendly rendezvous than a kidnapping, but Peter was grateful that Jones didn't verbalize the fact.

"I can pull up the Thruway Authority and see what they have in place," he volunteered. "They record all vehicles; not just the ones committing a violation."

"Okay, do it," Peter said, "Check footage for any adjacent intersections and see if you can spot the vehicle June described. Maybe we can get a shot of the driver or a plate to trace. _Something._ "

Peter didn't like the desperate tone that had crept into his voice. Now that he'd told Jones that Neal was missing he knew he could only delay the inevitable for so long. He was going to have to make the calls soon; he just wanted to have something to tell them, something that made Neal _MIA_ and not _AWOL._

"They have several," Jones said, "and since we have an exact time and location to start with, it shouldn't take too long to check footage from the traffic cams along that route."

"Start looking through them," Peter directed, "I'm going to go up to my office and run all of Neal's known alias and see if anything pops up, just in case."

Just in case what? Peter thought. In case Mozzie was wrong? In case _he_ was wrong? Just in case Neal had conned both of them? Mozzie's belief that Neal was in trouble, that he hadn't run, was the tipping point; it was the deciding factor in Peter's decision to wait, to investigate, to give Neal the benefit of the doubt. But what if Neal knew that convincing Mozzie would go a long way in convincing Peter? What if that, too, was all a part of a long con?

"So which is it?" Jones asked him, "Do you think someone's taken him or do you think he's run?" Jones' question was sincere. "What does your Caffrey Radar say?"

Everyone in the department knew that no one could read Neal Caffrey better than Peter Burke. What _did_ he think? What did he _want_ to think? And how could he tell the difference between the two?

After a moment's contemplation, he gave his answer. "I don't think he ran," he said, "but I just want to cover my bases in case I'm wrong."

"You better cover more than your bases, boss, if he has run, there's going to be hell to pay when Hughes finds out."

"I know," Peter sighed. Hughes had given him a lot of leeway with Neal, probably more than he should have. But he liked the results the team, with Neal's help, produced. "Check the traffic cameras and see if you can find that SUV. I'll be back down and help you go through the footage. We can cover it twice as fast."

Ten minutes later, Peter was back, his search turning up nothing. All of Neal's aliases had all been silent. Of course, if he had one clean identity that Mozzie knew about, he could have half a dozen that he didn't.

"I think I got it," Jones said, "Here at this intersection." Peter leaned over and examined the screen. Black SUV, tinted windows. No visible images. Neal could be driving the getaway car, or hog-tied and stuffed in the back, for all the camera capture revealed. "It's the only black SUV, so its got to the be one June saw." He looked at Peter, "I can keep looking, checking traffic surveillance along all possible routes and maybe get a shot of the plate." He paused. "But you _have_ to make the call. I understand wanting to give Caffrey the benefit of the doubt, but no matter what's happened, he's off anklet; you _have_ to report it. The longer you delay, the more explaining you're going to have to do." He paused. "Especially if he's really done something stupid."

"Give me Mozzie's number," Peter said. "I want to see if he's heard from Neal or turned up anything from his sources about where he might be. If he hasn't had any more luck than we have, then I'll make the calls. If Neal is in trouble, the more people looking for him the better I guess."

Jones gave Peter the number, but before he could finish dialing Mozzie, his phone rang.

Peter looked at the screen in alarm; Hughes. His section chief wouldn't be calling him unless something was wrong. With the current Caffrey situation, something _was_ wrong, but things must be more wrong than he knew if Hughes was calling him on the weekend.

Peter took a deep breath. He was afraid both he and Neal were out of time.

"Burke."

"Where are you?" He knew by the tone of Hughes' voice that the news wasn't good.

Peter only hesitated a moment. "I'm at the office, sir, why?"

"I just got a call from the NYPD; they're investigating a robbery at the Danford Building down in Queens; facial recognition flagged _Caffrey_ on the security footage."

Peter felt his heart drop. " _What?"_

" _Robbery,_ Burke, in Queens," he snapped, "and according to the Marshal Service, Caffrey's anklet is offline."

Hughes. NYPD. Marshal Service. Well, the cat was out of the bag now.

"Shit," Peter said beneath his breath, then, more vocally, "When?"

"They got the call about half an hour ago," Hughes said. "NYPD is on the scene now, and the Marshal Service is trying-" He stopped suddenly. "Why are you at the office?" His voice was sharp with suspicion.

Peter hesitated. He didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to tell the truth, either.

"Damn!" Hughes exploded, "you _knew_ Caffrey was up to something, didn't you? That's why you're at the office. What the hell-"

"Look, sir," Peter interrupted, trying to explain, "I just had a feeling something was wrong, so-"

"Get your _ass_ over there," Peter held the phone away from his ear as the section chief roared. Even Jones could hear him. "Do you know the flack the agency is going to catch over this? This is your mess to clean up, Burke; Caffrey was _your_ responsibility. I want to know how the _hell_ he did this, who helped him, and I want him found! _Do you understand_?"

"Yes, sir," Peter replied. "What was the target, sir?" He asked. "What did he take?"

"His _target_ was the Danford Diamond Exchange Company," Hughes spat, "And he _took_ six million in unmarked, _unregistered,_ diamonds. Get over there _now,_ Burke." He hung up before Peter could say another word. He snapped the phone closed.

"I take it Caffrey's done something stupid?" Jones commented.

The good news was that Neal was alive; the bad news was that he'd just stolen six million in diamonds and if he ever saw him again, it would be to put him back in prison. Peter clenched his jaw in anger. "It would appear so."


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for reading, favoriting, following and reviewing this story, and the others as well. I appreciate the encouragement from each of you. It keeps me motivated. :)_

 **C** **hapter Eleven**

The scene was somewhat of a madhouse when Peter and Jones arrived. Peter hadn't called Diana; she had taken a trip upstate to visit friends. After all, it was supposed to be their weekend off. He and Jones flashed their creds at the officers in front; they waved them on through into the lobby. The Danford Building was an upscale office building housing, from what Jones had pulled up during the drive, over forty different businesses ranging from Financial Planners to Investment Brokers to Internet Banking and Credit Services. The signature company, occupying the majority of the top floor, was, of course, the Danford Diamond Exchange Company.

"Leave it to Neal to go straight for the top," Jones had commented.

Other than the simple exchanging of basic information, the drive over had been rather quiet. Both men were lost in their thoughts about what had occurred and what they were in for once they arrived at their destination. Peter didn't want to believe Neal had chosen this course of action; that he had hacked the anklet and deceived his friends. That all the progress the two of them had made over the past months had only been part of a con that was culminating in a diamond heist at the Danford Diamond Exchange Company. He didn't want to believe any of it, but it didn't make it any less true.

He knew the line between being tempted and taking action was a very thin one for Neal. There had been times when Peter could almost see the battle going on behind the blue eyes as Neal quickly weighed the pros and cons of stepping over that line. But diamonds were a denomination of currency that was accepted worldwide and never lost value; an opportunity to make off with six million dollars worth must have been more temptation than he could resist. With those resources at his disposal, Neal could go anywhere and become anyone; he could start over.

What had he said at the hanger that day? _You get to go back to your life, and I get to have one._

Neal's plans for a new life had blown up in his face that day; literally and figuratively. It was the most heart-wrenching thing Peter had ever witnessed; the calm and collected, _never-show-your-feelings_ Neal Caffrey had fallen apart. After Peter had prevented him from rushing into the flaming debris, Neal had crumbled to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. But as Peter held him there on the tarmac, his body shaking with grief, Neal Caffrey had not been an asset; he had been a friend in need of comfort.

He had told Neal that day that he had a life, a life that mattered, with people who cared about him. Something in his eyes said he wanted to believe him, but trust did not come easily to Neal. With time, Peter hoped that might change, and that Neal would realize what he had said to him was true. That the life he had now was a good one where he did good things and made a positive difference in the lives of those around him.

He had begun to think that Neal had finally understood that and was beginning to accept his new life. After his sentence had been completed, Peter hoped Neal would choose to stay in New York. Maybe even continue to work with him and the White Collar team; not because he had to but because he _wanted_ to. Neal enjoyed the work, and they made a good team.

But now he knew that had all just been wishful thinking. Neal hadn't accepted this life; it had all been an act. He had just been buying time until the right opportunity came along and now that it had, he had thrown away any chance he had at a good life. It was such a waste. Neal wasn't a bad person, but he made bad choices. And because of this choice, he would be hunted down and sent back to prison for twenty years.

During the ride over, Peter could feel his face burning with disappointment, anger, and worse, embarrassment. He had let Neal Caffrey make a fool of him. Hughes was right; this was going to bring heat down on White Collar, on his boss and his coworkers. He'd let his friendship for Neal cloud his judgment; he had failed to do his job. He knew it, and _Jones_ knew it, and it probably wouldn't be long until Hughes knew it as well. There was going to be, as Jones had put it earlier, _hell to pay_. Jones hadn't mentioned those facts again at all; there had been no perfectly valid _I told you so._ Whether out of respect or fear, Peter didn't know, but either way he appreciated the silence.

Officers were taking statements from the attendees of the event, a sharp looking group both in intellect and in apparel. Neal would have easily fit in with the well groomed, smooth-talking bunch of Investment brokers. They all looked like con artists, and he supposed they were. They just did it the legal way. The wayfinding signage that directed participants to the Event Center hailed it an Investment Opportunity Seminar sponsored by the Danford Diamond Exchange Company.

 _ _Invest Today; Secure Tomorrow.__

Unless, of course, you were investing in the six million in diamonds that had just been stolen from the company safe.

Peter and Jones were directed by through the lobby to an officer near the front desk. Peter always expected push back when he introduced himself during an NYPD investigation. The local LEO's didn't like Big Brother infringing on their jurisdiction, but this situation was different. Neal Caffrey _was_ his jurisdiction. His responsibility. His mess to clean up, as Hughes had put it. He was expecting a fair amount of gloating at his expense.

"Agent Burke, Agent Jones," the man said, "I'm Sergeant Bradley." He extended his hand. "Let's head up to the top floor; Detectives Johnson and Turner are expecting you."

"What do you know so far?" Peter asked as they started across the lobby.

"The situation is still fluid," Bradley said. "We got the call less than an hour ago, and we got an APB out on Caffrey the minute his face flagged. So we doubt he's had time to get out of the city. We've sent units to his place," He said, "Not that they expect to find him there, but they might turn up something."

Peter very seriously doubted that; Neal wouldn't have left anything behind. Just like the phones, there would be no leads there. He wished he'd have known in time to warn June, though. She would be livid to have the NYPD barging into her home in search of her favorite boarder.

"Crime scene has started processing the locations in the building we think Caffrey visited and," the man continued, nodding at the chaos around them, "we're still interviewing witnesses to see what they may be able to add."

"Where did the camera catch him?" Peter had wondered about that since Hughes had mentioned it. Neal would have taken security cameras into account. After the level of planning this caper would have taken, getting caught on a camera seemed very un-Caffrey-like.

"It caught him the minute he came in the front door," the man responded, gesturing them into the elevator before stepping inside himself. He pushed the appropriate button and continued his dialogue. "He arrived as a guest of the seminar and checked in as Douglas Price, a Wealth Management & Investment Adviser from Chicago. He had an invitation and the proper id. Of course, after we identified him and pulled his record it explained his flawless documentation. Forgery, wasn't it?" He asked, "The thing the Feds finally got him with?"

"Yeah," Peter muttered, "That's the crime we were able to _convict_ him on, but the list of the ones we suspected him of included a much wider spectrum." A diamond heist was right up the Caffrey Alley. "Where did he go after that?"

"He picked up his Orientation Packet at the Welcome Table, then slipped out from the crowd and went to the Security Office on the third floor. He'd lifted a security badge from a building employee, and that's what he used to gain access. He uploaded a program into the mainframe that blocked video from the security cameras from being digitally stored. So after that, we get no images of his movements. Security didn't know anything was wrong until the alarm sounded." The doors of the elevator opened, looking onto the lobby of the Danford Diamond Exchange Company. "Of course, we know this was his ultimate target."

If downstairs had been upscale; this was opulent. The first thing Peter noticed as he stepped out of the elevator was the artwork on the walls. Had Neal been beside him, he would no doubt he'd be spouting off the names of the artists and each piece's value. This was certainly a target rich environment.

Bradley guided them through the lobby to where crime scene processes were underway in what he guessed was the senior partner's office. Once there, Bradley introduced them to Detective Turner; and gestured towards Johnson, who tossed up hand absently and returned to his phone call.

Turner thanked Sergeant Bradley, who, with a nod at Peter and Jones, left them.

"So, you are the one who let Neal Caffrey off his leash."

So it begins, thought Peter. It had taken longer than he'd expected. Sergeant Bradley had been reasonably polite.

"He wasn't on a leash, he was on an _ankle monitor_ ," Peter tried to keep the irritability from his voice, "He's a CI, not a German shepherd."

"He's a felon who was given a get out of jail free card by the FBI," he replied curtly, "and now has reverted to form. From what I read in his file, a job like this is just his style."

Finding it hard to argue with his same observation, Peter agreed. "Yes, Caffrey does lean towards challenging targets with a good payoff." Peter still hadn't determined which of those elements were the most important to Neal; the challenge or the payoff. He tended to believe the former. "Do you know how he accessed the Danford offices?"

"He used a security badge to get into a maintenance room," he said, "and entered an air duct. He moved along it for about thirty-five feet, then dropped into the office through the opening there," he pointed to a grill in the ceiling. "He went straight to the safe behind Crawford's desk, opened it, and took the diamonds. We assume he left the same way he came in."

Three persons were in the space in front of the safe; one dusting for prints, another was gathering fiber traces, and a third was photographing the scene. The register in the ceiling, still black with powder, had already been processed.

"Have you determined how he got out of here once the alarm sounded?" Jones asked, looking around, "Are there any window access points?" Jones knew Neal pretty well himself; rappelling down a six-story building would also be his style.

Bradley shook his head. "He didn't set off an alarm here," he clarified, "he set one off when he exited the building through the emergency exit on the first floor."

"A __what__?" Peter thought he must have heard the man wrong.

"He left the building by the southeastern emergency exit door," Bradley explained, "That's what alerted building security that something was wrong. When they went to check security footage, they realized that something was _seriously_ wrong; the system had been tampered with. They immediately did a system restore, then closed down the building. They called us, sequestered the guests, and began a security sweep of the offices."

"You're telling me that Caffrey got into the Danford Diamond Exchange Company office, opened their safe and stole six million dollars in diamonds, and _exited_ without tripping a single alarm," Peter looked at the man in disbelief. "Then __alerted__ _ _security__ to the robbery by opening a wired __emergency exit__ _?"_

"That's what happened, Agent Burke," Bradley replied.

"Why would he do that?" Peter was almost insulted on Neal's behalf; the man was many things, but he wasn't an idiot. "If no one knew a robbery was taking place, he could have walked out the front door with the diamonds in his shirt pocket and no one would have been the wiser."

"Detective Turner made the same observation," Bradley admitted, "but Johnson figures something, or someone, must have spooked him. He panicked and bolted out the closest exit. That's why officers are getting statements from everyone who was here; someone must have seen something."

These men didn't know a thing about Neal Caffrey. He didn't panic. He had an invitation, proper identification and name tag; if someone had seen him, he simply would have come up with a convincing reason for being away from the Event Center. He was lost. Looking for a bathroom. Needed to make a private call. He wouldn't _panic_ , and he wouldn't _bolt._ Especially out an alarmed exit.

"If no alarms in the office were triggered," Peter continued, "How did security know which office had been hit?" There hadn't been time to check all forty businesses, but of course, a diamond exchange would have made the top of Peter's list, too.

"During the initial sweep, security found a central heating register partially detached in the maintenance room on this floor. When they checked the offices, they found the safe open. Crawford nearly had a heart attack when he entered the room. He verified the diamonds were missing from the safe."

Although it was very likely Neal had committed the crime, the execution was sloppy. In fact, the entire plan was sloppy. Why set his anklet to loop; a perfect alibi to put him somewhere else at the time of the crime, and then walk in the front door and be caught on security cameras? Accessing the building from the roof was much more Neal's MO. Only six floors, there were taller buildings in close enough proximity for Neal to have done a bit of zip-lining to reach it. It not only would have been more discreet but would have been much more exciting, which in the world of Neal Caffrey, was _also_ a factor to be considered when devising a plan. With that entry, and abiding by basic Robbery 101 rules, he could have stolen the diamonds without anyone being the wiser until the next time the safe was opened.

Neal had not only let his face be caught on security footage, but he'd left a trail of crumbs showing exactly how he had committed the crime. Dislodged register in the maintenance room told security what floor to check and his means of entry; the safe door left open gave them his target. He might as well have rented a billboard outlining his plan and dialed 911 himself afterward. Even though most everything in Neal's personality screamed _look at me,_ his _crimes_ never did.

"It's pretty much cut and dried," Bradley was saying, "we know what was taken and by whom and there is plenty of evidence to make the case. We even have footage of Caffrey using a stolen badge to get into the security office. We just have to find him, hopefully before he can unload the diamonds, and take him into custody. Since you are supposed to know him better than anyone else, maybe you can help with that."

At that moment, Detective Johnson, having finished his call, burst into the conversation. "We don't need help from Agent Burke or _anyone_ ," his glare took in Jones before settling back on Peter, _"_ at White Collar."

The man was clearly upset; his eyes were blazing with fury. Peter wasn't sure what had set him off, but something had. "Detective Johnson," Peter began, "Caffrey is my responsibility and therefore-"

"Therefore you _should_ have notified the Marshal Service when you realized his tracker had been tampered with instead of _sitting_ on the information." At Bradley's confused look, Johnson elaborated. "According to the Marshals, Burke here has been logged in to their site checking Caffrey's tracking data since _three-thirty_ this afternoon. Not only that but our techs say that the White Collar office has already dumped Caffrey's phone and ran _his_ aliases through the database to see if any of them had been used for car rentals or plane tickets. They _knew_ he was off the reservation and, for whatever reason, chose to keep that information to themselves."

"It wasn't like that," Peter protested even though it was _exactly_ like that, "and there was no _they_ , it was me." He didn't want this landing on Jones; the man had told him to call from the very beginning."I was simply trying to determine what had actually happened. I was just about to call the Marshal Service when my SAC filled me in and sent me over here to help."

"Like I said," Johnson said, "The time for _helping_ was hours ago. If you had followed protocol, this robbery might never have happened. You know half the security staff is off duty NYPD, don't you? Caffrey would have never made it through the lobby if you had done your job. Now, who the hell knows where he is, and with six million in diamonds. I want you _off_ my crime scene."

Being ordered out by the NYPD did not set well with Peter. He understood they were unhappy about his deviation from protocol, but Neal was his CI, and Hughes had ordered him here. He didn't intend to leave.

"Special Agent Hughes ordered me here," Peter informed him, "and Caffrey _is_ my responsibility. So I am here until my _boss_ tells me otherwise."

"Well, I'd expect that call any minute now if I were you," Johnson snapped. "My boss is on the phone with _your_ boss right now, lodging a formal _complaint._ "

"I chased Neal Caffrey for three years," Peter told him, "and I'm the _only_ one who's ever caught him. You won't find him without my help."

"I don't need _your_ help to do _my_ job," Johnson retorted angrily, "and I want you out of this office and off these premises."

Before Peter could further protest, his phone rang. Caller id identified Hughes as the caller, and a satisfied smirk settled on Johnson's face. The two men locked stubborn gazes through three full rings before Peter relented and answered his phone.

"Burke." His voice was terse.

"I just got off the phone with Captain Ramsey at the 105th." Realizing that the conversation was not going to be a quiet one, Peter turned and took a few steps away from the others. "You _knew_ Caffrey was off his anklet and didn't _report_ it!" Hughes bellowed in his ear. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Sir," Peter began, "I was-"

Hughes had asked what he was thinking but didn't wait to hear his answer.

"Captain Ramsey has lodged a complaint against you," he said. "I hope I can convince him to keep our office in the loop, but right now we'll be lucky if they copy us on the _report_." He thundered. "And the Marshal Service is demanding a full investigation into your actions as well; I'm expecting a call from ORP any minute." He paused, and Peter heard a tired sigh. "Caffrey isn't the only one who's screwed up, Burke," he said. "You better hope they find him, and the six million dollars in diamonds or you could lose your badge over this."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Peter could almost feel the eyes of Jones, Detective Turner, and Detective Johnson drilling into his back as Hughes explained the seriousness of his situation. Formal complaints from the NYPD and the Marshal Service, and a probable investigation from ORP by the first of the week. Not to mention a very angry section chief. His day had gone from enjoying a football game in his sweats on the sofa to hell in a hand basket in the space of just a few hours.

"I'm sorry, sir," Peter's voice was low but sincere. "I should have reported it the minute I suspected something was wrong, but I thought there was a chance he was in danger-"

"If you thought Caffrey was in danger you'd have called in the cavalry," Hughes snapped, "the truth is you were afraid he'd run, and you were trying to find a way to reel him back in without anyone being any the wiser."

Peter didn't respond because he knew on some level that was the truth. He had thought it possible that Neal had been taken, but he'd also knew it was possible that Neal was running. In either one of those scenarios, alerting the Marshals would be bad news for Neal, and so he had put off making the call. He also thought he could find Neal and have him back where he was supposed to be by Monday morning.

"I've given you a lot of latitude with Caffrey," Hughes continued. "I've had my concerns about some of the crap you've let him pull, but until now, I've always trusted that you had him under control. Now, I have to wonder who is controlling whom."

"I can find him, sir," Peter insisted, "just let me stay here and do my job."

"If you'd done your job this might never have happened," Hughes snapped irritably. "An APB might have derailed his whole plan, or at the very least, he would have been identified by building security; half of them are off duty NYPD."

It was a reoccurring theme since this was the second time he'd heard that same statement. Had he notified the Marshal Service soon enough, Neal would never have stolen the diamonds. All this was essentially his fault. So typical. Neal screwed up, and it was his fault. _Also_ a reoccurring theme.

"They not going to find Neal Caffrey with flyers, BOLOs, and APBs. He's too smart for that," Peter told Hughes. "You have to get out in front of him, anticipate him, and you know no one does that better than I do. If they want to catch him, they need my help. "

"Don't you get it, Burke?" He rumbled, "They don't _want_ your help. They don't want you anywhere near this case."

"But Sir," Peter said, "Their suspect is also a CI for the Bureau who's escaped Federal custody, doesn't that make-"

"This robbery, Burke, is squarely in the jurisdiction of the NYPD," He said. "We can only be involved in their case if they request it, and right now, they are requesting exactly the opposite."

"But sir-"

"I tried Burke," Hughes said, interrupting his argument. "I told them that just because you checked Caffrey's tracking data, it didn't mean you suspected him of anything. I told them it was just part of the _Trust But Verify_ approach you took as a handler. But _damn,_ Peter," His use of his name indicated his frustration, "you ran a search on all of Caffrey's aliases a half _hour_ before the crime was committed. You knew he was missing, and you didn't report it. What the hell was I supposed to say to that?"

"If I can go over the crime scene," Peter pleaded, avoiding the question for which he had no answer, "see the footage and read the statements, I can find out what's going on. I just need-"

"You just need to get out of there and let them do their jobs. I mean that Burke, don't do anything else to piss off the NYPD; you've got enough problems without adding any more to the list. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, sir." Peter ended the call, set his jaw and turned back to the group.

"I take it by your expression that you've heard from your boss," Johnson stated. "And he's informed you that you are off this case?"

Peter took a breath. He had to keep his temper under control. He was angry at Detective Johnson for being a stubborn ass but more than that; he was angry with himself for getting into this situation. He'd lectured Neal about having to face the consequences of bad decisions and now he had to do the same. He _had_ screwed up. He didn't like being kicked off the case, but he couldn't blame Hughes for that. The man had tried to defend him but his actions had made it impossible. Instead of answering Johnson, he addressed Jones.

"That was Agent Hughes," he said. "He's been informed that the NYPD does not want the Bureau's assistance on this case." His met Detective Johnson's eyes. "Of course, both he and I know that is a _mistake_ , but it's their case and therefore their call."

"Yes, it is," Detective Johnson agreed. "I trust you two can find your way out? I have a crime scene to finish processing and a thief to catch."

"Good luck with that." Peter couldn't keep the sarcasm from his tone. "Let's go, Agent Jones, and leave these men to their work."

The two of them exited the office and made their way toward the elevator. Once out of earshot, Jones glanced at him in question. "That's it, then?"

"Hughes told me not to piss off the NYPD and you heard Detective Johnson," Peter replied. "He doesn't want our help."

Jones didn't seem to like the idea of being kicked off the crime scene any more than Peter did. "So we're just _leaving_?"

"Yes, we are," Peter said as he and Jones stepped into the elevator. But instead hitting the button for the lobby, he hit the number three. "But while we're finding our way out, we're going to stop by the security office. See what they're saying down there and maybe get a look at the footage before we go."

Before they reached their destination, Peter's phone rang. When he answered, the voice on the other end was again unhappy, but for different reasons.

"They had their guns drawn Peter," June told him, "and they _scared_ Janet. They're tearing the apartment apart. They said Neal is the suspect in a robbery. Is that _true?_ "

"I'm afraid so, June," Peter said. "Just stay out of their way and let them do their job. Have you heard anything from Mozzie?"

"Not since he left earlier," She supplied. "Peter, I don't believe Neal-"

"Listen, June," Peter interrupted what he knew was going to be a defense of Neal Caffrey, "I'm at the scene now, trying to get more information. Just sit tight and try not to worry. I'll call you back in a little while."

He ended the call about the time the doors opened. He knew telling June not to worry had been a waste of words; she would do so anyway. And so would Elizabeth once she found out how the situation had gone from bad to worse since he'd left the house. He was surprised he hadn't heard from her already, now that he thought about it. Neal had a tendency to bring out the mother hen in both June and Elizabeth.

Peter and Jones stepped out on the third floor and made their way down the wide hall to the security office. By the foot traffic of NYPD tech support they met on the way, it looked as if they were wrapping up things at that particular location. When they reached the office, the door was open, and several people were still inside.

Guessing it unlikely that Detective Johnson had the time to inform building security that the FBI was not working the case, Peter flashed his badge at the first uniformed guard he encountered.

"I'm Agent Burke," he said, "and this is Agent Jones. What can you tell us about the suspect's movements in here?"

"I can't tell you anything," the young man answered, glancing nervously across the room. "I've been downstairs being questioned. He used _my_ security badge to get in. I didn't even know it was gone until after everything happened." He swallowed, and his voice dropped. "My boss is going to fire me for this."

"Caffrey is very good at what he does," Peter told him. "It could have happened to anyone on duty tonight, believe me. You were just the unlucky one he ran into first. Who here can answer some questions for us?"

"My boss can," he gestured across the room to a man who was speaking with a guard at a computer terminal. "He's the one who realized there had been a break-in." He paused. "Can you tell _him_ that; that it could have happened to anyone?"

"Be glad to," Peter said. "What's his name?"

The man brightened. "Mr. Maxwell. He's head of security."

Peter and Jones crossed the room. Mr. Maxwell, noticing their approach, finished up whatever conversation he was having and moved to meet them. He was an imposing figure, standing three inches taller than Peter and carrying at least thirty pounds on him. His face was not the face of understanding man. Peter could see why the young man was concerned about his job security.

"Mr. Maxwell," Peter again showed his badge and introduced himself and Jones. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about the break in."

He seemed irritated by their presence, but Peter guessed, as head of building security, he had also had a bad night. The young man he'd just met might not be the only one worried about his job. "I've already given my statement to the officers," he said, looking from Peter to Jones. "I don't know what else I can add."

"I understand," Peter replied, "and we'll read through all that a bit later," he glanced at Jones, who knew as well as he did that wasn't a given, "but since we're here, I just had a couple of quick questions. Did you interact with the suspect at all?"

"No," he answered. "I wasn't the one who checked him in. _Michael_ over there did." He shot a less than kind look at the man Peter had just spoken with. "and let him get his hands on his _security_ badge."

So Michael had spoken with Neal; Peter would have to ask about the exchange when he finished with Maxwell and had gotten a look at the security footage.

"I'm sure the officers told you who you were dealing with," Peter said. "Don't be too hard on Michael; Neal Caffrey is a skilled con artist and the best pickpocket I've ever seen. If you'd checked him in, it would have been your badge he lifted."

"I very much doubt that," Maxwell replied dismissively.

"I don't," Peter stated. "He's _that_ good. What I'm not clear on is exactly what he did in here. Can you walk me through it?"

Maxwell again looked irritated, but after a moment's pause accommodated the request. "It's pretty simple," he said. "He put a program into the main computer that prevented images from the cameras from being uploaded to the server."

"And that is _all_ he did in here?" Peter looked around the room curiously. "What else is controlled from this location?"

"In addition to security cameras," Maxwell supplied, "this room controls and monitors door locks and alarms, smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, fire alarms and sprinkler systems, elevator controls," he shrugged. "Basically, anything related to building security."

"Would the suspect have access to individual office security from here?" Peter asked. "Could he have turned off the alarms to the Danford Offices?"

Maxwell shook his head. "No, we don't have access to the alarms in that office," he informed. "The Diamond Exchange Company is one of a handful of businesses that have separate systems in place."

"So, as far as you know, the only reason he came in here was to upload that program into the computer?"

"The tech analyst said nothing else had been modified or tampered with," he confirmed. "So yeah, I guess that's the only reason he came in here." He frowned at Peter. "Why?"

"Because I don't know why he'd bother disabling the cameras since he was already on the security footage," he paused. "Unless there was another reason for doing so; something else he didn't want anyone to see."

Maxwell's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what that could be," he said. "Nothing else in the building was disturbed."

"That you are _aware_ of," Peter reminded him. "It's a bit early in the investigation to know that for sure. Can we take a quick look at the security footage while we're here?"

Again the man looked put out by the request but before he could agree or decline, a voice rang sharply through the room.

"Agent _Burke._ I thought I told you that I want you _out_ of this building and _off_ my case."

Having entered the security office, Detective Johnson was not pleased to find he and Jones there, and his tone of voice made it clear. Peter turned from Mr. Maxwell and faced an angry Detective Johnson.

"I have my _own_ case to work, Detective Johnson," Peter replied curtly. "Neal Caffrey's broken his release agreement with the FBI and escaped Federal Custody, and as his handler, I intend to find him. As a suspect in this crime, the evidence collected here may be relevant to my case, and I expect access to it."

Johnson's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "I think the only thing you should _expect_ is a disciplinary hearing concerning your lack of professionalism in this matter."

"Be that as it may," Peter stated icily, "my office is requesting access to the security footage, crime scene photos, and witness statements. I would like to see the footage now, and you can send the other information as soon as it's processed."

"When, and if, I get a formal request through the _proper channels_ ," his tone was equally Arctic, "I will provide copies of the security footage _and_ the files to the FBI; but not a minute before. Now," his eyes narrowed in challenge. "Do I have to have an officer _escort_ you out or can you find your way this time?"

"You will have that request within the hour," Peter spoke through clenched teeth. "I suggest you comply with it promptly, or I won't be the _only_ one facing disciplinary actions."

He stepped past Detective Johnson and left the room before the man could reply.

"So much for not pissing off the NYPD," Jones said without humor as they made their way down the hallway. "Do you think he'll send the files?"

"He'll have to send them eventually, but I doubt he'll be in any hurry to do so," Peter admitted. "Maybe it will be more expedient if I can get Hughes to send the request directly to Captain Ramsey. I _need_ to see that security footage."

"Why?" Jones asked as they entered the elevator for the second time. This time, he pushed the button for the ground floor himself. "It's Neal, boss; there's no doubt about it. Facial recognition identified him in less than three minutes. Building security and the NYPD had already seen it and if it revealed anything of value, they'd have said so. What do you hope to get from it?"

What he hoped to get were answers. When he'd gotten the call about the robbery, the benefit of the doubt he'd tried to give Neal had evaporated instantly. It sounded exactly like the kind of job Neal would pull. Six million dollars was a pretty good pay off for a long con. Had Neal not triggered an alarm, the robbery wouldn't have been discovered until the brokerage opened at nine a.m. on Monday morning. That would have been about the same time he would have to come to the realization that Neal had tampered with his anklet and fled Federal custody. Neal, with six million dollars and better than a thirty-six-hour head start, would have been so far in the wind the chances of ever finding him again would have been thin. Except for one little mistake, one alarm he failed to detect, it seemed to Peter like a perfect plan.

That is until he got to the Danford Building and learned otherwise. Neal had stolen the diamonds; every bit of evidence pointed to the fact. But things didn't add up; his method of entry was all wrong, the visit to the security office pointless, and nothing would cause him to exit out a wired emergency door. The crime may seem the type Neal would choose to commit, but the plan for the crime went against everything he knew about Neal Caffrey's _modus operandi_. Nothing about it sounded like something Neal would do.

When he'd first got the gut feeling that something was off, he thought he might once again be allowing personal feelings to influence his perception of the situation. But the more he'd heard from various sources at the Danford Building about the specifics of the crime, the more convinced he became that Mozzie and June may have been right after all. Maybe Neal hadn't run, but someone had taken him, and if they had, they had done so for a reason. Mozzie had been afraid it was for revenge, either for something Neal had done before coming to work for Peter, or more likely, according to Mozzie, something he'd done while doing so. But there was another reason someone would take Neal; because they needed him for something. Once Neal Caffrey was identified as the thief, no one would bother to look any further for a culprit. He was the perfect front man.

"Something that tells me what is going on," Peter said. "I _know_ Neal, and except for the target being diamonds, nothing about this job sounds like something he would do."

"I'll admit I thought the same thing," Jones said, "but he did it, Peter. There's no question about it."

Peter knew his failure to report Neal's departure had raised questions about his ability to do his job, and defending Neal in spite of the evidence against him would only make the situation more precarious. But he didn't care. It might be his career, but it was Neal's life.

"He might have been the one sent in to steal the diamonds, but there is no way in hell this was his idea."

"It doesn't matter if it was his idea or not," Jones reminded him. "Maybe he was just hired to get into the safe and take the diamonds and someone else did the planning."

"But it wasn't even a good plan," Peter pointed out. "Neal would have come up with a better one, something that didn't leave his _name_ all over it."

"Yeah, but maybe for a cut of six million dollars he just did as he was told."

Peter raised his eyebrows at that suggestion. "Have you _ever_ known Neal to just do what he was _told?_ Or to go along with a plan he didn't like without tweaking it?"

"Point taken," Jones conceded with a sigh. Neal was notorious for tweaking plans. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking Mozzie and June could be right after all and that Neal didn't get into that SUV because he wanted to."

"So you're back to the idea that someone _kidnapped_ him?" Jones didn't seem convinced.

"I think it's possible," Peter said. "Someone could have taken him and forced him to steal the diamonds for them."

"Forced him how?" Jones asked. "Blackmail? Threats of violence?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted, "but if I can see the security footage, I'll have a better sense of what's going on."

It was hard to explain why but Peter knew it was true. He'd know more once he'd seen the footage himself.

He had learned a lot about Neal over the years by simply observing him. He had watched him when he knew he was being watched and when he didn't. He'd seen Neal relaxed, nervous, scared, drugged out of his mind and heartbroken. He _knew_ Neal and even though it wasn't an exact science, his Caffrey radar was pretty reliable. Everyone who had viewed the security footage had done so for the purpose of identifying Neal as the suspect, but Peter would be watching with a different purpose in mind. He would study his expressions, his demeanor, and his behavior. He wanted to know if Neal was acting on his own volition or if he was under duress.

"I have a friend at the 105th," Jones said as they made their way through the lobby. It had cleared out considerably since their arrival. "I'll give her a call. Maybe we can get a look at the footage before the official request if processed."

"That would be great," Peter said, looking at his watch. It was almost a quarter past nine; he had to call Elizabeth.

"If they took him to steal the diamonds," Jones ventured, "what happens to him now that the job is done?" There was a real element of concern in Jones' voice.

It was a question Peter had asked as well. Now that the job was over, had Neal outlived his usefulness?


	13. Chapter 13

_Sometimes it happens; you have a story all laid out, chapter by chapter, and suddenly a character hijacks the plot and runs in another direction. I guess I know how Peter feels when Neal improvise on a job and leaves him scrambling to adjust. Dammit, Neal!_

 **Chapter Thirteen**

It felt nothing like he'd ever imagined it would; rushing out of a building, sliding into the back of a waiting car, and speeding way with six million dollars in stolen diamonds in his pocket. There was no rush of adrenalin, no thrill of excitement, no eager anticipation of what was to come.

In fact, it was very much the opposite. When Neal had rounded the corner and seen the black sedan at its designated place at the curb, he's heart _had_ sped up, but not in excitement, and instead of eager anticipation, he only felt a massive sense dread at what the next few hours was likely to hold.

He'd paused at the corner, feeling an impulse to bolt in the other direction. He guessed it was the instinct of self-preservation kicking in. There was no guarantee that his return would save his life or the life of the young man in the Brighton Barons Sweatshirt. In fact, there was a chance that both of them, their purposes served, would be dead before the night was over. But the impulse to flee had been a brief one; there was no way he could run and leave the kid behind. If he returned, he could buy some time; if he didn't the boy would have no time at all.

There was a chance that Eden wouldn't kill him; he was worth more alive than dead, and Eden was a practical man. But the kid had no value; he was a loose end, and no matter what Eden had promised the mother, Neal didn't see him letting the boy go. If the diamonds had been the real target of the robbery, Neal might have considered trying to use them to negotiate for the boy's life, but they were only a diversion; the real money was probably already beginning to flow into offshore accounts.

Eden's base of operation was the warehouse; the transfers would be completed from that location. Neal had seen the set up in the conference room before he'd been taken to the Danford building. Eden would probably just lock him up while the accounts were drained, but when that was finished, he'd give the order to clean out the warehouse and tie off all loose ends. That was when Neal supposed, if he weren't beaten to death for his past transgressions, he'd be shoved into the trunk of the black sedan and taken back to Chicago where real fun would begin. Eden's other captive would most likely be killed and left behind or dumped along the route somewhere. But the accounts were large, and if they were drained correctly, in increments to avoid the transactions being flagged, it should take several hours at the very least to complete the task. That, he'd figured, would give Peter time to find them.

He knew Peter would be notified as soon as he was identified as the suspect, and he'd be at the Danford Building as fast as his Taurus could get him there. Peter always assumed the worst, particularly when he was concerned, and he doubted this would be any different. He'd barge in, flash his badge and throw his Federal weigh around. He'd walk the crime scene, looking for anything that might tell him what Neal had been thinking or what his next move would be. That was what Peter did, and he did it better than anyone Neal had ever known. So, he planned to give him something to find; a message telling him about Terrence Eden, about the lady at and her son, and what the real target of the robbery had been. Whether Peter believed his message or not, he'd still check it out. Even if Eden hadn't left a trail, the money transfers would as long as Peter knew to look for them. Once that information had been delivered, all Neal had to do was wait for Peter to trace the money back to the warehouse.

It seemed like a pretty good plan until he entered the lobby and caught site of the security officer across the room. Not just any security officer, but by the uniform the _chief_ security officer. Eden had said he had many eyes at the Danford Building, and one set belonged to none other than one of his kidnappers. Neal had wondered where Max had disappeared to during the afternoon meeting, and now he knew. Eden not only had an inside man on building security staff but a ranking member.

Max made eye contact with him the minute he entered the lobby, tapping his watch to remind him that there was a very tight timeline to keep. The sight of Max was disconcerting, and he glanced around the room to see if anyone else seemed unduly interested in his arrival. He didn't notice anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Who else in the building was on Eden's payroll? Office staff? Seminar participants? It could be anyone and that complicated things; anything he said or did to alert Peter might be picked up by someone working for Eden. That would end badly; not only for him, but for the boy as well.

He needed to rethink his previous plan and do it quickly. He wouldn't be able to leave Peter detailed information. He might only be able to point him in the right direction.

He began his prescribed movements, falling in line behind a young woman in a gray business suit that was remarkably flattering to her form. He had been told which checkpoint to pass through, and he could see why; the guard was young and seemed new at the process. He lacked the confidence that a seasoned security officer would possess. He was what Neal would have classified an easy mark. The line was moving quickly, and there were only two people in front of him. A minute here, another couple in the line at the orientation table, and he would be out of the lobby and on his way to the security office. Everything he did here would be captured by security cameras from three different angles. Peter would see the footage but so would Max; in fact, Max would probably see it before Peter did. He needed to come up with a way to leave a message that only Peter would be able to find.

"Douglas Price." He handed his invitation to the young man who took it without looking up and checked it against the list. Finding the name, he put a neat little check beside it before asking to see ID. Neal handed him the requested item; the young man glanced at it then looked up to verify the face in front of him matched the one on the card. Whoever Eden had to do the ID had done a good job and having the photo from his Bureau ID had made his job easier. But his face at present looked a little different from the one pictured on the card; one eye was black, there was a bruise on his jaw and a scrape across the bottom of his chin. The young man's eyes widened in surprise.

"Wow," he blurted out, "what happened to _you_?" The security officer's remark attracted the attention of the man at the checkpoint beside him. He glanced at Neal's face, and his eyebrows raised, echoing the young man's question.

In usual practice, having attention drawn to you when you were about to commit a crime was a bad thing but, in this case, Neal saw it as an opportunity. After the robbery, anyone who had spoken to him would be interviewed by the NYPD and _grilled_ by Peter. His bruised face had caught their attention, so maybe his answer would stick in their minds.

"Took a shot to the face," he explained, glancing over at his curious neighbor. "Those boys at up at Bradford and Donnelly play a mean game of racketball."

He knew dropping the name was a risk, but he didn't have a lot of time to explore better options. A brief exchange of words during check in wouldn't arouse suspicion from Max or anyone else keeping their eyes on him. As long as, of course, neither of these men fell into that category.

"Looks like you took more than _one,_ " The man beside him said, taking his ID from the guard and placed it in his jacket pocket. He glanced back at Neal, his look telling him he knew a racketball hadn't inflicted the damage to his face. "If I were you, I'd steer clear of that _particular_ game going forward." With those words of wisdom, he stepped away, and the next in line took his place.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Price," the young man apologized, handing Neal back his card. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Don't worry about it," he said, placing his ID back in his wallet. "So where do I go from here?"

The man gestured to the right. "The Welcome Center," he answered. "You can pick up everything you need over there. I think the second table handles letters K through R."

Neal thanked him for his help, acquired the security badge hanging from his belt, and slipped it into his pocket.

"I hope you enjoy the seminar, Mr. Price."

"I'm sure I will, thank you."

He moved away and made his way through the crowd to the table designated for participants K through R. Again; he had to stand in line. Although he received several curious glances, no one said anything about his unusual appearance or made any inquiries. Everyone seemed too busy checking their phones to speak with any of the people around them. He used his time in line wisely, knowing that Peter would watch every move he made time and time again.

Once he had checked in, he was given a name tag and lanyard, and a nice binder with the DDEC Logo on it. He placed the tag around his neck.

"You'll find the agenda, and other pertinent seminar information, inside your binder, Mr. Price," the lady informed. "I do hope you enjoy the seminar as well as your time in the city."

Items in hand, he didn't follow the other seminar participates to the refreshment table or into the large room where the opening activities of the seminar were to begin.

Instead, he made his way toward the back of the large area to the hallway that accessed the elevators and stairwell. He took the stairs to the third floor, used the security badge to get inside, and inserted the zip drive into the computer. He'd taken his seat at the terminal and followed the instructions he'd been given. Just as he'd stood up and removed the zip drive, the door to the office opened. Neal looked up in alarm to see that Max had entered the room.

The man didn't bother with a greeting, but instead grabbed him and shoved him roughly against the wall. Neal feared his earlier actions had been observed, and that somehow Eden had guessed his fidgeting in line at the Welcome Center was something other than nerves. But when he held Neal still with one large hand and patted him down with the other, he realized the man was just making sure a security badge was all he'd collected during his trek through the lobby. His searched turned up nothing, but he still kept Neal pressed painfully to the wall.

"I will watch every move you make tonight," he growled into his ear, "and as head of Building Security, I will check every place you visit; _before_ the police arrive on the scene. Keep that in mind." He pressed harder against Neal's chest with his forearm, forcing the air from his lungs and causing a sharp pain to shoot through his left side. "If I see as much as a _paperclip_ out of place, _anywhere,_ I will make a call, and that kid will die. Do you understand?"

" _Yes,_ " The lack of air caused Neal's answer to come out in a whisper, "but if you... break my ribs... I'm not going to be able to get in the office..."

Max held him there a moment more before releasing his grip. Neal settled back on his own two feet, regaining both his breath and his composure as quickly as possible.

"If you don't mind," he said, stepping passed the man and opening the door, "I have some diamonds to steal."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Just shy of a half hour later, out of breath and with his hand pressed tightly to his side, Neal slid into the seat beside Eden and closed the door. The engine was already running, and the driver pulled away from the curb quickly.

Eden looked at him in satisfaction. "Well, Ken, our boy came back." He sounded both pleased and relieved, indicating to Neal that his return had not been a given. "Got my diamonds?"

"Of course," Neal answered, moving his hand from his side into his pocket to retrieve the diamonds.

His hand shook and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his cheek. Normally a dash across a street and around a corner would be nothing, but given the state of his ribs, his meeting with Max in the Security office, and the maneuvering through the narrow shaft that led to Crawford's office, he was feeling a little worse for the wear. He handed the parcel to Eden, who unfolded the black cloth and inspected the fruits of Neal's labors.

Fifteen stones glistened in the light of the passing lamps that lined the street; the sixteenth was still in Neal's pocket. If Eden had a count of the diamonds and noticed one was missing, he'd plead ignorance, then discover the loose diamond in his pocket. With his varied, and at times strenuous, activities it was reasonable that one of the diamonds could have slipped from its enclosure. If Eden didn't notice its absence, well, if he lived long enough, Neal could _always_ find a use for a spare diamond.

He waited, again pressing his hand to his side to relieve his discomfort, as Eden inspected his haul. The shortfall went unnoticed. That meant there was no inside source at the Danford Diamond Exchange Company, or at least, not a high ranking one.

"I've done my part," Neal said after a moment, "So what happens now?"

Eden didn't answer his question, still admiring the gems. "It's amazing how little space six million dollars can take up," He mused, shifting the stones in his hand. The cyber crime might be more lucrative, but nothing was more mesmerizing than a handful of diamonds. "I guess that's why diamonds are preferred over cash in many circles."

Diamonds not only were difficult to trace and provided anonymity in transactions, but the international and multijurisdictional nature of their trade made it difficult for law enforcement to conduct investigations. Those factors made them a popular form of currency with mob bosses, drug runners, arms dealers, and terrorists; circles Neal had never cared to travel in.

"Diamonds are a commodity," He explained. "They hold their value in spite of market or currency fluctuations. They're difficult to trace, simple to transport, and in a liquid market, easy to quickly convert into cash if it becomes necessary."

Eden refolded the cloth around the stones and glanced sideways at Neal. "Sounds like you know something about it."

To stay alive, he had to stay useful, and his familiarity with the dirty side of diamond dealing had sparked Eden's interest. He could _use_ that. Sometimes, survival was about seizing every opportunity that presented itself and working through them one by one until you found something that worked.

"I know something about _a lot_ of things." He nodded at the cloth resting on Eden's lap. "You already got a buyer for those?"

"I know a guy," Eden told him, "and he's willing to give me the full market price for them when I get back to Chicago."

"I can get you more than that," Neal said, "if you let me. Maybe a good bit more."

"More than six?"

"They might be worth six in _legitimate_ markets," Neal explained, "to diamond dealers, jewelers or any retail operations. But to someone who needs to exchange dirty money for a _cleaner_ revenue source, they are worth more than that."

"Money laundering?" Eden raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Is that something else that wasn't included in your file?"

"Well, I've never actually provided that particular service myself," Neal admitted, "but I've occasionally used those who do to liquidate high-end items that I've found in my possession."

"So you've used them to move stolen art," Eden translated. "And they give you more than market value?"

"Not necessarily for art," Neal admitted, "but diamonds, untraceable ones, are a different thing altogether."

"And you think they'd pay more than six million for these?"

"If the right person approaches them, yes."

Eden looked amused by Neal's answer. "I suppose you are the right person, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately no," he admitted reluctantly. "As you know, I've been out of the game for awhile. But I can still set it up for you; I know a guy."

Eden studied him as he considered the offer. Like him, the man was an opportunist and more was always better than less; especially in millions.

"What would it take for you to make this happen?"

Neal felt himself relax just a bit. He'd finally found some wiggle room between a rock and a hard place. "A phone, and a little time."

"A phone I got, but time is more of a problem. How much time are you talking?"

"Don't know exactly until I can talk to my guy," Neal hedged, "but it takes time to get that much cash together." He paused. "Of course, if you're willing to take the payment electronically, that could speed things up considerably." The man was already electronically moving millions upon millions of funds; the option should be a no-brainer.

"Interesting offer," Eden's answer was disappointing noncommittal, and he didn't hand Neal a phone; instead, he handed him a black hood. "You know the drill."

It was the same hood he'd to place over his head when they'd left the warehouse to drive to the Danford Building. Eden was careful to keep the location of his base of operations unknown. Neal took the offered hood with a sigh. "Is this really necessary?"

"Would you prefer the alternative?" Eden reached into his pocket and produced a small black case, and when he flipped it open, Neal saw it contained a syringe. "This was originally what I'd planned for your return trip."

"No," Neal amended; whatever was in the syringe he knew he didn't want it. "I'm good with the hood." He quickly slipped it over his head.

"Good choice, Danny," Eden said approvingly. "That way, if we do decide to take you up on your offer, you'll be lucid enough to see it through."

"Not to be difficult," Neal said from beneath his hood, "but the guy I need to call is kind of paranoid: security is everything to him. He can only take calls at specific times."

"What times?" Eden asked.

"I'm not exactly sure off hand, " Neal admitted,"and since I don't have my phone I can't find out. But," he paused, "if you look up the tide chart for Majuro Atoll, it will tell you the next time I can make contact."

 _"Majuro Atoll?_ " Eden asked. "I've never even heard of it."

"That's kind of the point," Neal said. "It's in the Marshall Islands and they have no extradition treaty with the States. My contact only turns his phone on at low and high tides."

"This contact of yours," Eden commented. "He must one strange creature."

"You have no idea."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

The question Jones asked hung between them; if Neal really had been kidnapped to do this job, what happened to him once it was over? The whole situation left Peter in a state of constant conflict within himself. He desperately hoped Neal hadn't committed the robbery of his own free. If he had, he'd thrown away his life and possibly Peter's career in the process. But the alternative, that someone had taken him and was forcing him to do their bidding was even more distressing. If the robbery was all they needed him for, then the search for Neal might end with something more dreadful than a trip back to prison; it might end with a trip to the morgue. He vacillated between being furious with Neal to being sick with worry. But at the end of the day, he could live with a blow to his career; he could not live with something happening to Neal. Not just because, as his handler, he was responsible for his safety, but because he was his friend.

If someone had taken him, they knew he had the skills they needed, or they wouldn't have chosen him. Peter assumed it was either someone he'd crossed paths with during his criminal activities, or someone who had heard of his exploits through a third party. If it was someone Neal knew, or had worked with in the past, that might work in his favor; he'd be better able to negotiate with them.

Unless, of course, it was someone he'd double-crossed, stolen from or otherwise pissed off. There did seem to be several of those in Neal's past as well, and if that were the case, he would be better off in the hands of strangers.

Neal was smart and superb at manipulating a situation to his advantage. He would have analyzed his situation, studied his captors, and determined their plans for him. If he realized the only thing they wanted from him was for him to steal the diamonds, he'd know he would be in big trouble once he'd completed the job. He would know that the only way to stay alive was to make himself useful to the people who had him, and with his depth of knowledge on a variety of topics he was sure to come up with something. He was good at that.

Peter remembered how Neal had stood in front of him when he'd found him after his escape from prison and picked that thin sliver of material from his jacket. His eyes had narrowed, then glimmered with strange excitement. Peter now knew that was the look Neal had when an idea suddenly popped into his mind. "You know what this is?" he asked, holding the tiny sliver in his fingers. Peter had been pulled from his previous case so quickly and sent to track down Neal Caffrey, that he hadn't noticed the debris from the blast that still clung to his clothing. He'd been close to capturing a criminal he'd been chasing, but the evidence he needed had blown up in his face, spreading the small slivers of material all over him and everyone else in the vicinity. He had no idea what the stuff was and said as much.

"What's it worth if I tell you what this is?" Neal asked. "Is it worth a meeting?"

Caffrey was trying to bargain with him, but he wasn't sure why. "What are you talking about?"

"If I tell you what this is _right now_ ," Neal insisted, glancing towards the door, "Will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week? Just a meeting."

The blue eyes were almost pleading; for whatever reason, it was something Caffrey wanted badly. And he wanted to know what the mysterious fiber was.

 _Well,_ he thought, _it was just a meeting. How much trouble could one meeting be?_

"Okay," he agreed.

Caffrey told him Peter what it was; a security fiber from a Canadian one hundred dollar bill. Peter later found out that its development was still classified; the Canadians had been furious. How could someone, locked up in maximum security for almost four years, possibly know something like _that?_ But Neal Caffrey had. The man was scary smart.

The next week he honored his word and traveled to the prison, and Neal tried to strike yet another bargain. He would help Peter catch the Dutchman, a criminal he'd been after for almost three years if he'd spring him from prison. There was case law precedence, Neal insisted, and he could be released into his custody. He wouldn't run, he said, and he'd even wear a GPS tracking device.

Of course, Peter had shot him down. He'd walked out of the prison that day sorry for the look of disappointment he'd seen on Caffrey's face, but sure he'd made the right decision. But three months later, he had walked out of the prison again, this time with Neal Caffrey at his side.

All because Neal had spotted a fiber on his suit and, in the spur of the moment, found a way to use it to his advantage. He'd built on the smallest of opportunities, and three months later he'd convinced the FBI agent who put him in prison to get him out again.

"He'll think of something," Peter stated firmly, a full five minutes after Jones had posed the question. "If anyone can find a way out of an impossible situation, it's Neal Caffrey."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

A crucial part of setting the stage for a con was not to oversell it; you had to present the opportunity and then be patient enough to let it sit. If you appeared too eager to close the deal, you raised suspicion in the paranoid and frightened away the hesitant. In either case, whether paranoid or hesitant, the person you were working had to feel they were in control or they'd never take the bait. That was the trick of a good con; the ability to manipulate every aspect of a deal without appearing to do so. To be in complete control of the situation while allowing someone else to think they were the one calling the shots. It took psychological profiling of the mark, meticulous planning of the operation, and most of all, patience. You made the offer, walked away, and waited for them to come to you.

Usually, waiting wasn't that difficult; he knew going in an offer would have to marinade, and he used that time to review the plan, to go over each step to make sure he had planned for any contingency. He checked each detail, each contact, each component, and when he had finished, if he was still waiting for the call, he did it all again. That kept him busy, his mind sharp and focused, and made the waiting easier to manage. Sometimes the call came quickly, other times, it took longer. It all depended on the con itself, and the person you were dealing with. Waiting was just a part of the process. That is what Neal kept reminding himself as he sat in silence, a black hood over his head, and waited for Eden to initiate further conversation.

Eden always seized any opportunity to maximize his profits and Neal doubted he'd be able to pass up the offer. He just had to be patient and wait for Eden's greed to surpass any misgivings he might have about a possible delay in his departure schedule. And instead of using the time to review his plan, Neal had to come up with one.

Of course, he might not even need a plan. All he really had to do was stall and just offering to get Eden more for his diamonds might accomplish that. It just depended on when the next high or low tide occurred on the beaches of Majuro Atoll. If he was lucky, it could be several hours away, but thus far, luck hadn't been on his side and the stall for time tactic hadn't exactly panned out. If things stayed true to form, the tide was probably due to change soon and, if Eden took him up on the offer, he'd have to make a call to Mozzie and get the ball rolling on the sale. He would just have to continue to stall; the longer he kept Eden in the city, and specifically at the warehouse, the better. It would take time for Peter get to the scene, begin his investigation and find the clues Neal had left for him.

It was distressing to think of how Peter would react to the news that his CI was the suspect in a diamond heist. He wouldn't have even gotten the call yet; he was still home enjoying his Saturday afternoon with Elizabeth. The NYPD would be first on the scene but once they viewed the security footage it wouldn't take long to identify Neal Caffrey as the suspect. Shortly after that occurred, Peter would get a call, and his quiet, relaxing weekend would come to an abrupt end. His anger would only increase when he learned that the tracking device had been tampered with. He'd assume, understandably, that Neal had come up with a way to hack it so he could leave his radius and steal millions of dollars worth of diamonds. He had to admit it sounded like something he might have, at one time, been tempted to do. But of course he would have done it entirely differently, and once Peter was briefed on the details of the crime, he surely would recognize that. When Peter watched the security footage of his movements through the lobby it should remove any lingering doubts he had; he'd know his CI was being used to distract everyone away from the real crime, and the real criminals.

He dreaded the next couple of hours for Peter and knew he would start the evening suspecting the worst of him, but by the end of it, he would know the truth. And instead of wanting to send him back to prison, he would be working to bring him home. That was both Neal's hope and consolation.

It wasn't long before the car came to a stop and was left running while the driver, Ken, exited the vehicle. Neal heard the familiar sound of the loading entrance to the warehouse being rolled aside. When they had left earlier, someone else had opened the door, and then he assumed, closed it after their exit. Neither the driver nor Eden had been required to exit the vehicle. Neal assumed, this time, the extra hands were otherwise occupied; probably busy at the computer that had been set up in the break room. After a moment, he heard the driver re-enter the car. They moved forward only a few feet before the car again came to a stop, and this time, the engine was turned off.

"Looks like high tide rolls in on Majuro Atoll at 11:47," Eden informed him as he removed the hood from his head. He must have been checking the tide charts on his phone during the drive. He glanced at the watch Eden had so generously supplied. That was almost five hours away; his offer must have just missed low tide. Maybe his luck was changing. "So, if you can reach this guy of yours," Eden went on to say, "what happens next? What kind of time frame would I be looking at?"

It wasn't yet a commitment, but Eden was considering taking him up on the offer. Greed was a predictable motivator. But the delay it would cause was still an issue for him.

"I'll let him know what we're looking for, and he will go out and find it," Neal replied as he exited the car, closing the door behind him as Eden repeated the same movement on the other side. "The hour may create somewhat of a challenge, but I'll call back at low tide and see who he's managed to round up and what they are willing to pay."

Eden gestured toward the opening to the hallway that led to the area of the warehouse Neal was already familiar with. He moved toward the doorway, not sure if he'd be spending the next hours in the Breakroom with Eden or in the maintenance-room-turned-cell. As long as he wasn't tied to the chair, he'd just as soon be in the latter. At least he'd be alone and able to think.

"I'd assume any buyer would want to verify the merchandise before releasing that kind of money," Eden surmised, "but arranging that sort of thing could get complicated and time-consuming, and as I've said, I don't have a lot of time." Neal wondered if Eden's schedule was self-imposed or if it had somehow been dictated to him.

"It's standard practice to have a face to face before transferring the funds," Neal agreed, entering the doorway into the wide hallway. He paused once inside, allowing Eden to lead the way. "But it would speed up the process if we gave my contact the go-ahead to take care of all those details once he finds a buyer. He can set up the verification process, as well as the meeting time and place, with the buyer, and just give us the when and where when we call back in the morning."

"I'll take that suggestion under advisement," Eden told him, passing the door to the Breakroom without a pause. Neal glanced through the window and saw that the computer was being manned by an older man Neal had not seen before. "You know," Eden continued, "I've learned something important about you tonight, Danny."

The sudden shift in conversation surprised Neal and being called Danny made him felt instantly uncomfortable. He tried to show no reaction when Eden called him that but each time it happened, he felt his jaw tighten slightly in spite of his best efforts to keep his face impassive. Eden had once said he could read people like yesterday's news and Neal guessed that his micro-expressions of distaste didn't escape the man's attention. He knew Neal didn't like being called Danny and that was why he insisted on doing it. "That I'm more valuable alive than dead I hope."

"I knew you were valuable, Danny, that was never the question." They reached the door to his room. The padlock hung unfastened to the latch on the outside of the door.

"None of the guys, except for Ken, was convinced you'd come back once you got your hands on those diamonds. They figured you'd take them and try to run."

"I didn't see that as a good option myself," Neal commented, "but people tend to base their opinion of others on their own qualities. Liars lie, so they expect everyone else to do the same. Thieves steal, so they assume everyone is trying to rip them off." He allowed a small smile to play on his lips, "So with that in mind, if you do decide to take me up on the offer to sell the diamonds here in the city, I wouldn't trust any of them with the face to face."

"See," Neal didn't like the self-satisfied look on Eden's face, "that's what I learned tonight."

"What, that with the exception of Ken here, you can't trust any of your crew?" Neal retorted, "Doesn't sound like something to be so pleased about."

No," Eden responded in amusement, "that saving your own ass wasn't a viable option tonight."

"Saving my own ass is _always_ a viable option," Neal assured him, "it's just that I wasn't convinced making a run for it with those diamonds would accomplish that goal."

"You didn't even _have_ to steal them," Eden said, "Once inside, you could have blown the whole thing, called the police and walked out of that building safe and sound. But you knew if you did, I'd kill the kid." Not only that but probably Mozzie and June as well. Again a smug look crossed the man's face. "So you just did as you were told. No matter how much you say otherwise, you really haven't changed that much, Danny. And even though that bleeding heart of yours makes you weak, it also makes you _manageable._ "

Even though he didn't like being considered manageable, Neal knew that if Eden didn't consider him as such, he'd have no reason to keep him alive. When he'd made the pitch to Peter about working out his sentence in the custody of the FBI, he hadn't had to convince Peter that he was valuable; Peter already knew that. He had to convince him that he could be managed, controlled. In that case, it had resulted in a tracking device, a two-mile radius, and constant threats to send him back to prison if he failed to deliver or if he put a toe out of line.

Eden, Neal knew from experience, had different management tactics. His way of making people toe the line was through intimidation and threats of physical violence coupled with generous rewards for loyal service. The combination proved quite effective.

When he'd first met Eden, he'd been desperate, alone, and tired of being on the street. Eden not only offered him a job, but a place to sleep, food to eat and protection; a family of sorts. In return for that, Neal was more than willing to do whatever he was asked. He'd jumped at every opportunity to accommodate Eden's wishes. He delivered cash and drugs to locations all over the east side, committed robberies, and forged countless documents. Anything to earn his keep, prove his worth and win the respect and approval of Terrence Eden.

As long as that was his attitude and he was willing to blindly follow orders, he and Eden got along just fine. But a few months in, he began to have reservations he could no longer just push aside. Neal was young but not so naïve that he didn't recognize the occupation of the women who lived in his building. Neal knew that Eden didn't own the building but he had a hand in the business that operated from there. They occupants varied in ages, but some looked barely older than he was. Each time he passed one in the hallway, he saw a level of fear in their eyes that never left. The older women didn't look frightened, they just looked tired and hopeless. He learned from Tom that it was only one of three buildings that Eden and his mysterious partner operated; the other two were on their list for regular deliveries and pick ups. It was from him as well he learned that the most profitable apartment building catered to customers with specific tastes.

"The younger the better," Tom told him one day as they exited one such establishment. "That's where the money is."

Neal was mortified. "Where do the girls come from?"

"It's not just girls, _pretty boy_ ," Tom said in amusement, "You better be glad you made a good impression on Eden when he pulled you in, because if you hadn't, you'd be working on an entirely different set of skills."

Neal felt his face flush at the implication. "Not me," he said, "I wouldn't do that, not for any amount of money."

"It's not like you'd have been given a choice in the matter," Tom said. "You should know that by now. If Eden wanted you earning your keep that way, that's what you'd be doing. Or you'd be dead. Simple as that."

"So these girls- these _people_ ," he corrected, recalling those he passed in his hallways sometimes, "they do this because he _makes_ them?"

"Most of them are addicted to drugs and will do anything for a fix," Tom explained. "Some are runaways with nowhere else to go, and others have been in this business ever since they were sold by their drug-addicted parents."

"Sold by their _parents_?" Neal repeated in horror. "How young are you talking here?"

"I don't know," Tom said, "and to be honest, this part of the business kind of turns my stomach. I already know more about it than I want to, and I don't ask questions. I just do what I'm told, and I'd advise you to do the same."

Neal had guessed Eden was involved in more criminal activities than the drug, protection, and robbery racket he ran out of the restaurant, and he knew the man was ruthless. But he'd never imagined he could be involved in something so despicable. Eden and his partner not only preyed on young runaways, forcing them into prostitution in exchange for drugs or a place to live, but they were also buying and selling children as well.

Eden had no conscience, no shame and no respect for human life. Anyone who could prey on innocent children in such a way was evil; there was no boundary they wouldn't cross and no limit to what they were capable of. Neal didn't want to be any part of it. It was then he decided to start working on an exit strategy. A main component had been, of course, creating Neal Caffrey.

"I have some things to attend to," Eden said, opening the door and nodding for Neal to enter. "If I decide to take you up on your offer, I will let you know."

Neal stepped inside the room and Eden pulled the door closed. He heard the sound of the lock being clicked into place.

Finally, he was alone.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Both Peter and Jones placed calls in route to the office, but neither had immediate success. Jones left a message for his friend in the NYPD, but since Mozzie didn't have a voice mail box set up, Peter couldn't even do that.

Not being able to reach Mozzie concerned him. He should have been waiting for a call, either from him, from Neal, or from someone with information. His unavailability caused fresh doubts to assail Peter. Neal _had_ just stolen six million dollars worth of diamonds. If he had been a willing participant in the crime and Mozzie had managed to track him down, he wasn't likely to call and give Peter the news. It was more likely that he and Neal would both disappear into the sunset, six million dollars richer.

He wanted to talk to Elizabeth but was saving that call for when he was back at the office and had a little privacy. He was upset; she'd be upset, and he didn't want an audience for that conversation.

Peter knew by the blaze of lights coming through the glass doors that the White Collar offices were no longer deserted. He and Jones exchanged concerned looks before pushing open the door. Since Neal's desk was right at the front, it wasn't hard to see who was there and why. The Marshal Service was on the hunt; searching through Neal's desk as if searching for hidden treasure.

At their entrance, one of the agents looked up from a file he was examining. It appeared to be the Mortgage Fraud Case Neal had picked up on Friday afternoon. What he hoped to find there Peter had no idea.

"What are you doing here, Agent Burke?"

Peter didn't recognize the man but the man recognized him. "I _work_ here," he replied sharply, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"My job," the man replied. "I'm Agent Donaldson, US Marshal Service." He didn't bother to show his creds.

Peter glanced at the man going through Neal's desk. The extra shirt and tie Neal kept in the bottom drawer had been tossed onto the floor. "Do you really think he left a travel itinerary in his desk drawer?" He couldn't help the sarcasm.

"Like I said," Donaldson replied, "We're just doing our job. The NYPD searched Caffrey's residence, and we are handling his workplace. It's standard procedure," he said. He met Peter's eyes. "Something _some_ of us follow."

Peter had gotten the same treatment from the NYPD, and now he guessed it was the Marshal's turn to take a shot at him. Before he could respond, Jones nudged his elbow, nodding towards the back of the office. Another agent was at Jones' desk; he wasn't digging through his desk, but he did seem to be digging through his computer.

Peter crossed the distance quickly, feeling his face begin to burn with anger. Going through Neal's desk was one thing, but going through the computer of a Federal Agent was another. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded once he drew closer. The man at the desk looked up, and Peter continued, "Who authorized access to that computer?"

"I did," Agent Hughes responded, voice ringing out from the catwalk above them. "And you might as well know, there's another agent up here, going through yours as well."

"What gives them-"

"We have nothing to hide, here, Burke," Hughes' tone was sharp; warning. "And the best way to prove that is to grant them access to everything we know. Do you have a problem with that?"

Of course he had a problem with that; the Marshals wanting to go through the computers did not bode well. He knew they were angry that he hadn't reported the error in Neal's tracking data, but this seemed more like they suspected him of collusion than of bad judgment. Bad judgment insulted his intelligence, but collusion insulted his integrity. And none of this was Clinton's fault. So, of course, he had a problem.

"Of course not, sir," He said with clenched jaws. "Whatever they need." He shot a look at the agent at Jones' computer. "But they could just _ask._ "

"I am sure they will, Agent Burke," Hughes replied, "now that you are here. And when they do I expect you will be forthcoming with any information you have."

"So the second number you ran," the man at Jones' computer took them at their word, "it's a disposable cell, and it went dead the same time, and at the same location, as Caffrey's phone. I take it this phone belongs to him as well?" The man's tone was disapproving.

"There's no rule against him having his own phone," Jones replied, "and as you can see, it's a dead end anyway."

"So you were involved in this as well?" Agent Donaldson had followed down the aisle to Jones' desk. His remark also was directed at Agent Jones.

"There is no _this,"_ Peter interjected, "Agent Jones only did what I, _as his supervisor,_ asked him to do. So if you have a problem, it's with me."

"I have a problem," the man retorted, "a _big_ one. You knew that Caffrey's tracker was offline, that he was running around off anklet, and you didn't report it to us." The man sounded frustrated, and Peter guessed, if he were in his shoes, he would be too. "That cost valuable hours, hours that could have been used to apprehend him _before_ he committed a crime."

"I understand the delay complicated matters-"

"You didn't _delay,_ " the man snapped, "you didn't report it at _all._ Now, Caffrey's not only running; he's running with six million dollars worth of diamonds."

Peter understood Donaldson's dilemma; Neal Caffrey would be a challenge to recapture in any circumstances but with six million dollars at his disposal, it would now be a nearly impossible task.

"I would have reported it," Peter insisted, "I was just about to do just that when I got the call about the break-in."

The man's expression was skeptical. Peter winced. _Would have_. _Was just about to_. He sounded like just like Neal; he never bought it when Neal tried to sell those excuses so no wonder Agent Donaldson wasn't buying them from him, either.

"There was only one number dialed with this phone," the man at Jones' computer interrupted. "Do you know who's it is?"

Jones shook his head. "I don't know a name," he answered with a glance at Peter. It was the literal truth; even Peter didn't know Mozzie's real name. He wasn't the only one sounding like Neal Caffrey today. "And we didn't have time to investigate it further before we were called away."

"I ran it but couldn't pull any call data on it; can't even tell who issued it. It's a prepaid cell like the other, but this one has no GPS features, and there seem to be some additional security measures I've not seen before." He glanced up at Agent Donaldson. "It's only turned on sporadically, and it pings off different towers each time. There is no discernible pattern in the times or the locations. It must be done on some kind of pre-arranged schedule."

A schedule Mozzie had neglected to disclose to him, but for once, Peter was glad for the paranoid little guy's overexuberant security measures. He'd really hate to be explaining why he had called the number to the Marshals or to Agent Hughes.

"Okay,' Donaldson said firmly, "I think that wraps up what you can do here, Ed, get down to the office and see if our techs have any tricks up their collective sleeves that might get us more information, especially on that mystery number."

"But sir," Ed began hesitantly, "We don't have-"

"Give them the information and let them work on it," Donaldson snapped, "Then fill out the necessary paperwork for a pin register and trap and trace just in case they come up with something. If they do, wake up a Judge and get the warrant."

It wasn't that easy to get a warrant; especially with no clear indication that the owner of the number was involved in any criminal activities. But even if Donaldson called in a favor and got a Judge to sign a warrant, he had to know who held the records he needed to access. Peter doubted that would be an easy task. He was sure Mozzie had gone to great lengths to stay off the grid. Remaining anonymous and off the radar was something between a compulsion and religion to the man. Neal's phone had lacked that level of security, but Peter guessed Neal had sacrificed security for convenience. He liked his smartphone with all the bells and whistles while Mozzie carried a simple flip phone. No frills but untraceable.

"Yes, sir," Ed said as he closed down his work at Jones' desk.

Donaldson turned his attention back to Peter. "This other number you had for Caffrey," he said, "Did you give it to the NYPD?"

"I offered my assistance," Peter said, "but instead of taking me up on it, Detective Johnson ordered me off the case and off the crime scene. Wouldn't even let me see the security footage or talk to any witnesses. So, no," he said, "I _didn't_ share it."

"I've spoken briefly with Detective Johnson," Donaldson said, "and he's not convinced that you really want to find Caffrey, Agent Burke. He thinks you might even hinder the investigation."

Peter felt his temper flare. "I would never hinder an investigation," he stormed, "and believe me, no one wants Neal Caffrey found more than I do."

"Your actions today say otherwise," Donaldson said.

"You have no idea what the hell you're-"

"Agent _Burke,_ " Hughes' voice cut through the room, ending the verbal volley between the two men. He gave Peter the two finger _come here now_ sign, and with an angry glare at Donaldson, Peter complied. He wasn't sure if it was an improvement to his situation or deterioration; Hughes knew him, and even knew Neal to some degree, so he guessed it was the latter.

Peter made his way up the stairs to Hughes office. The sight of an agent at his desk did nothing to calm his temper. He stopped at the door, and the man glanced up; he at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"In here, Burke," Hughes said from his door. Peter moved past the conference room to Hughes office.

"I thought I told you to stop pissing off the NYPD," Hughes stormed as Peter stepped past him and into the office, "Not only did you continued to do that but now you're provoking the United States Marshals Service. Are you _trying_ to lose your job?"

Peter was glad Hughes closed the door, not keen on having the agents next door, or below, hear the ass chewing that was sure to come. "Of course not sir, I'm just trying to _do_ my job. Caffrey is my responsibility," he said, "my mess to clean up, remember?"

Hughes' eyes narrowed at Peter's use of his own words. "Well, you've not been cleaning it up, Burke, you've been making it worse. So I am now _removing_ that responsibility from you. Give me your badge," he demanded, hand outstretched, "and go _home_. You're suspended until this is resolved."

"I'm the only person who has _ever_ caught Neal Caffrey," Peter reminded him, "and you're _benching_ me?"

Hughes didn't answer but just stood there, his hand outstretched. Seeing from the man's expression he had no intention of relenting, Peter handed over his badge. It wasn't really a surprise; he'd expected as much when he'd heard about ORP's involvement. But he thought he'd have until the first of the week.

"This is for your own good," Hughes explained, "I told you that you were off this case, and you didn't listen. Maybe if I hold on to this," he held up the badge before placing it in his desk drawer, "you won't be tempted to go throwing it around in an investigation you are _not_ supposed to be working."

"They won't catch him without me," Peter stated flatly. "You know that as well as I do."

"If you have any information pertinent to the case, or if you have any idea where Caffrey might turn up, I expect you to give that information to those working this case," Hughes said, "But you are to sit this one out. Do you understand?"

"The last time he escaped they gave the case to us; they were begging for my help."

"Well they aren't begging this time," Hughes replied, "I've received two specific requests for you to be removed from this case."

"Well, I'm removed," Peter said, motioning towards the desk that now help his badge. "Agent Jones and Berrigan can head up the investigation from our side."

"We've been strongly encouraged to let the Marshal Service handle the Federal side of the investigation."

"Since when have you let anyone tell you what this office can or cannot investigate?"

Hughes sat down heavily in his chair. He looked as tired as Peter felt. "Jones and Berrigan on the case is the same thing as _you_ on the case; don't think I don't know that."

"No one knows Neal Caffrey better than I do," Peter reiterated, "and I can provide valuable assistance to Agent Jones and Berrigan. That's it; they will do all the investigating, ask all the questions and follow up on any leads. I'll just provide guidance."

Hughes studied him a moment, thinking over the offer. Peter doubted he believed a word he'd said, but by saying it, he'd given his boss plausible deniability.

"Okay," he conceded, "I'll get a request out to Captain Ramsey tonight for all the evidence from the robbery to be sent to Agent Jones. But if I get one call, Peter, _one call_ that you are sticking your nose-"

"You won't, sir," Peter said. "Guidance, only, I promise."

"Then go home. Provide any _guidance_ from there," Hughes's look was skeptical. "Don't come back here until I call you."

"Yes, sir." Peter knew what suspended meant; no badge, no pay and no access to Bureau resources.

"And send Jones up on your way out."

Peter left, noticing as he passed his office that the Agent had finished his fishing expedition, and glancing down onto the office floor, saw that only Agent Jones remained. The other agents had left. He was glad of that. He didn't want another run-in with Agent Donaldson.

Jones' questioning eyes followed him down the stairs. "Well?" He asked once Peter arrived at the bottom.

"I got good news and bad news," Peter said. "Which do you want first?"

"The bad." Peter had always preferred bad news first as well.

"I'm suspended until further notice," Peter said. "Agent Hughes took my badge and told me to go home."

"Damn," Jones said softly, "I'm sorry, sir." His tone suggested that he, like Peter, wasn't exactly shocked by the development. "And the good news?" he asked tentatively.

"He's sending the request to Captain Ramsey for case files and evidence to be sent to White Collar as we speak."

"But if you're suspended-" Jones began.

"That's the rest of the good news; you've been promoted, Agent Jones. This case is yours, and oh," he added, "and Agent Hughes wants to see you in his office."

" _Temporarily_ promoted," Jones clarified, moving towards the staircase Peter had just descended. "Just until this mess is straightened out. I don't want your job, Agent Burke."

"Sometimes," Peter admitted, "neither do I."

After a couple more parting words to Jones, mostly instructions to let him know the minute he had access any of the information the NYPD had gathered regardless of the time, Peter left the Federal Building. Just as he was about to make the long overdue call to Elizabeth his phone rang. She had waited long enough.

"Hey hun," he answered quickly, "I'm sorry I haven't called; things have been crazy today, but I'm on my way home _right_ now."

"Good to hear." Instead of the sweet voice of his wife, it was the irritated voice of Mozzie. "Because you and I need to talk."

" _Mozzie?"_ Peter snapped, flustered that Neal's sidekick had been privy to a tone of voice reserved only for Elizabeth. "Why are calling me from Elizabeth's phone?"

"Taking safety precautions, Suit," Mozzie explained, "Given the recent developments, I feel extra caution is advisable. Did you know the NYPD is camped out across from June's? I had to pose as a delivery man just to check on her. She's a mess, by the way. The NYPD are nothing but a bunch of bullies."

"They're just doing their job." Peter felt bad for June, but when you rented to a convicted felon, there was always the chance the NYPD would come knocking at the door. "Did you find out anything about Neal? Where he might be or where he might be going?"

"No, but I know who took him." Mozzie sounded certain. Peter never asked where he got his information but, to date, it had never been wrong. He had thought all along that all he needed was a lead; a threat to follow and he could unravel this whole mess. Maybe Mozzie had found him one.

"Who?" Peter asked, previous irritation instantly forgotten.

"A man named Terrence Eden," Mozzie replied. "Word is he came to New York looking to collect on a debt he says Neal owes him."

Peter racked his brain, but the name rang no bells. "I've never heard of him," he said. "Have you?"

"No," Mozzie said, "but I only met Neal after he came to New York; this guy claims that Neal worked for him before that. And apparently, their parting was _not_ amicable."

Peter's own carefully created Caffrey timeline only went back eight and a half years, when a forgery case turned up on his desk. He knew nothing about Neal's life before that, but he was fairly sure he'd been in New York since he was eighteen. If he'd worked for Eden before that, he would have been just a kid.

"What did Neal do to this guy?" Peter asked, "Steal from him, con him out of something?" He bet a youthful Caffrey could have conned a cat out of its cream.

"I have no idea, Suit," Mozzie stated, "I just know he was here to collect, and I think we both know how he's done it; he forced Neal to steal those diamonds for him."

"That could be a working theory," Peter said, "Do you know where this Eden is from? "

"According to my sources," Mozzie said, "Chicago."

"I'll have Jones run his name through viacap. And, if you don't mind," Peter added sarcastically, "tell my wife I will be home in twenty minutes."

Peter hung up before Mozzie could reply and placed a call to Jones. He only reached his voice mail; he was probably still in Hughes office getting strict instructions to keep Peter Burke on the sidelines during the investigation. "Run the name Terrence Eden and see what you get," He instructed, "He's supposed to be here in New York, but he's from Chicago. Call me when you have something."

Peter switched on the engine of the Taurus, pulled away from the empty curb and started home. He had been at odds with himself all day; he didn't want Neal to have committed this crime of his own volition, but he didn't want him in the dangerous predicament the alternative indicated. He'd thought before that, if Neal had been taken, he would be better off in the hands of strangers than in the hands of someone he'd double-crossed, stolen from or otherwise pissed off. But that, if Mozzie was correct, was just where he had found himself. In the hands of someone with a score to settle.

It was nearly eleven p.m. The robbery had taken place just over four hours ago. If Neal hadn't found a way to appease Eden in some way, he could be dead already.

The thought caused a knot to form in the pit of his stomach. He was exhausted but knew he would have no sleep tonight. He hoped he'd spend the next several hours viewing security footage and looking through files and reports, finding in their midst something that would lead him to Neal. But he feared that would not be the case; that the information he desperately needed wouldn't arrive until morning, or even worse, Monday. In that case, his night would be spent much less productively; awake and worried about the fate of his CI and friend, Neal Caffrey.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

It surprised Neal that Eden didn't search him before leaving him alone in the small room. Even though he'd had no real opportunity to lift a cell phone or any other useful item after he'd exited the security office, he didn't think Eden would take the chance of leaving him without being certain. Plus, he figured Eden wouldn't miss an opportunity to inflict some pain, and as his ribs now testified, a rough search could certainly do that. But the expected search didn't come. The offer Neal had made, the possibility of getting an additional million or two out of the diamonds, and the concerns about how that would affect the timeline had distracted Eden from his usual efficiency.

In preparation for the anticipated search, Neal had moved the diamond from his coat pocket to his cheek, holding it carefully between his lower teeth and jaw, as they had made their way down the hallway to his room. Now that he was alone, he carefully removed it. He'd picked it at random; the stones he'd taken from the safe seemed to all fall into the four to six carat range, all round cut and colorless or nearly so. He couldn't tell without an eye loupe, but if they were flawless, they probably ranged between two hundred and four hundred thousand each in legitimate markets. However, the fact that they were unmarked and unregistered would make them even more valuable in _other_ markets. The one he was now holding in the palm of his hand, he placed just shy of five carats.

He took a seat in the chair he'd once been tied to and checked out the bottom of his shoe. He already knew the lock picks he kept hidden in the secret lining of his jacket pocket and the ones in the hem of his pants leg had been removed. He wasn't sure about the ones he kept in the heel of his left shoe. With a quick twist, he opened the compartment. If the picks had been undiscovered, it would be a good place to hide the diamond.

But the lock picks he kept there were also gone. In their place was a small object that Neal recognized immediately; he had had the occasion to use similar devices himself. It was a small battery-powered location tracker. The battery was only good for a couple of days, and the range was limited to a half mile at best. He remembered the moment he'd paused at the corner and contemplated whether to return to Eden or make a run for it. Eden had said his men hadn't expected him to come back, and Eden had been prepared for that scenario. Neal thought about removing the device but instead clicked the heel back in place. He'd stash the diamond somewhere else and maybe

The relief he felt at being alone lasted all of half an hour; by then he'd discovered the tracking device in his shoe, found a place to stash the diamond, and unwrapped then re-wrapped his ribs. He'd also checked the room carefully, looking for anything that might prove useful that he may have overlooked in his earlier, less than mentally-sharp state. His search again proved fruitless. There was no way he could leave the room undetected; if he were to escape it would have to be once he was on the other side of the door. That wouldn't only prove problematic since he was always outnumbered two to one, but it would also leave the boy at Eden's mercy which, he'd decided early on, he would not do. He told himself that both of them were safe as long as Eden was busy overseeing the transfer of the Bradford & Donnelly client's money and debating whether or not to take him up on his offer to arrange the sale of the diamonds. Even though spending hours in an empty room with nothing to do but worry about what was to come was less ideal, Neal knew that each hour that passed was one more hour Peter had to work the case. He looked at the wristwatch Eden had left with him; it was almost eight. By now Peter would have heard about the robbery and be at the Danford Building beginning his investigation.

Since the thought of Peter's initial reaction stressed him out, Neal instead turned his mind to what he'd say to Mozzie if and when Eden took him up on his offer and allowed him to make the call. He had no doubt that Mozzie would have heard about the robbery and he, like Peter, would assume the crime had been his idea. Both men would be angry and feel betrayed but for entirely different reasons. Peter would be angry Neal had broken the law, and Mozzie would be angry that he'd broken the law without including _him_. Neal knew he wouldn't be able to get much of a message to Mozzie; he was sure Eden would be listening to every word they exchanged. But there were a few tricks he and Mozzie had picked up over the years. Again, much as he had done with Peter, he would give as much information as he could and rely on his friend to figure out the rest.

He'd need to let Mozzie know he was in trouble and acting under duress but also that a rescue timed with the handoff of the diamonds would not work. If it were only his life in the balance Neal would take any risk to escape Eden's grasp but with the boy held hostage, he had to be more selective in his planning. His offer to help Eden sell the diamonds was only an effort to delay the departure from New York. Once Eden's business in the city was finished, he'd settle his local debts, dispose of all loose ends, and return to Chicago. Whatever Eden's plans were for him, he was sure they would come to pass in Chicago. That was where he'd betrayed Eden, and it was there he would want to exact his revenge. Whether that meant he'd be beaten to death as an example or just within an inch of his life and forced to work under Eden's control, it at least meant he would have more time. The boy, on the other hand, would not have that luxury. Once Eden was finished with New York, he'd be finished with him as well.

The first couple of hours passed relatively quickly for Neal. He paced the small room and sifted through various scenarios of how he could convince Eden to honor his word and let the boy go. He'd occasionally wonder where Peter was in the course of his investigation. Had he seen the surveillance from the lobby? Had he talked to the kid who'd checked him in? Had he figured out that the clients of Bradford & Donnelly were the real targets? He knew that even when Peter pieced it together, it would take time to get things in place. It was late on a Saturday night. Some tools of investigation required paperwork, warrants, and other legalities and Peter always did things by the book. If Eden took the bait and agreed to sell the diamonds before leaving the city, that just gave Peter more time to do what he did best; follow the clues and track people down.

But by the time ten-thirty rolled around, Neal was starting to grow more anxious. What if Eden decided a couple million wasn't worth the risk of trying to sell the diamonds in New York? What if he realized that Chicago, too, had money launders who would likely pay a better price? What if he decided to leave New York before Peter was able to find them? What if, by the time he opened Neal's door again, he'd already tied up his loose ends and killed the boy? He'd thought the times he'd been stuck in the van made him stir crazy, but that was no comparison to this. He paced the small space like a caged animal.

By the time he heard the lock on the outside of his door jingle, Neal was nearly at his wits ends. He looked at the watch; eleven-forty. He hoped this meant Eden had decided to take him up on his offer. Knowing it wouldn't do to appear too anxious, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and waited for the door to open.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The fact that it was Mozzie, and not his wife, who met him at his door at eleven twenty-five was a testament to the kind of day Peter had had. It was likely an indication of the night to come as well.

"You said twenty minutes and it's been twenty-five," Mozzie admonished as Peter stepped through the door.

"Mozzie, I don't work to your schedule," Peter said, glancing around the room, "Where's Elizabeth?"

She came around the corner from the kitchen, cups in hand. "I just fixed some tea for Mozzie and me," she said. "He's been filling me in on what's going on." She met his eyes in question. "I'm actually surprised you're here at all; I expected you'd be camped out at the office all night."

He stepped past Mozzie and moved across the room to his wife. She set the cups down on the table and looked at him in concern. "What is it?"

"I've been suspended, El," he said quietly, "until this gets mess gets sorted out. So any work I do will have to be from here."

"What?" Her eyes widened, her tone one of disbelief. She knew what his job meant to him. " _Why?_ "

He removed this jacket, slinging it over the back of the recliner and began to explain the events of the day.

"I can't blame him," Peter finished, "once the NYPD and the Marshals realized I knew Neal was gone before the robbery took place and didn't report it, well, let's just say they weren't pleased. They're requesting a full investigation into my actions and demanded Agent Hughes take me off the case."

"But you were trying to find him," Elizabeth protested. "They act like you were helping him escape or something."

"I should have immediately reported the incident to the Marshal Service," Peter explained. "That is SOP when a prisoner is off anklet."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed, "Neal isn't just a _prisoner off anklet_ ," she stormed, "he's a _friend_ in _trouble_. How can Reese not let you look for him?"

She had clearly gotten Mozzie's account of the situation. Neal was not an escaped felon who'd committed a robbery; he was a kidnap victim in need of rescue. In reality, the two were closely interwoven and it would take some doing to sort it all out.

"That's kind of the problem," Peter said. "Neal is supposed to be my CI, El, not my friend and Hughes thinks I've lost my objectivity. The Marshal's didn't want White Collar involved at all, but fortunately, Hughes didn't go for that. He's put Clinton in charge."

As if on cue, Peter's telephone rang. It was Clinton Jones.

"Tell me you've got something." He said into the receiver. He needed some good news.

"Other than strict instructions to keep you out of trouble," Jones answered, "I got some information on this Eden character. Terrence Adam Eden, fifty-six. Owns a couple small restaurants in Chicago. He had a few assault charges and did a couple of stints for B & E when he was younger but the Chicago PD has questioned him in conjunction with more serious crimes since then. What does he have to do with Caffrey?"

"According to Mozzie's sources, he might be the one who took him," Peter said.

"He's bad news, boss," Jones continued. "According to what I see here, over the past twenty years, he's been investigated for everything from drug running, to robbery, to procuring prostitution. Been the prime suspect in _three_ murders."

Not exactly the good news he was hoping for. "Investigated but not charged?"

"Been charged a few times," Jones said, "but the cases fell apart when witnesses either recanted their testimony or disappeared altogether. Like I said, he's bad news. Why would he take Caffrey? How would he even know him?"

"Mozzie says the word is that he had some kind of problem with Neal years ago and he's recently decided to settle up. He's been here trying to track him down."

"I'll make a call," Jones stated. "Guy like that, I'd guess the Chicago PD keep tabs on his movements. They'll know if he's left town; may even have intel as to where he went."

"That's good," Peter said, "and run Neal's name by them while you're at it; see if it's come up in any of their past investigations."

"How many years-" Jones didn't finish the question, and Peter could tell he had been distracted by something.

"How many years _what?"_ Peter asked after a moment. " _Jones?_ "

"Sorry, sir," Jones said, "I just got an email; it's the NYPD's preliminary report on the robbery."

The line grew quiet. Peter knew Jones had opened the report and was trying to skim over it quickly for any pertinent information to share. He kept quiet and waited. It wasn't easy. After a few moments, Jones spoke.

"Witnesses say Caffrey's face was messed up," Jones reported, his voice low. "Like he'd been in a fight or something." Both of them knew that Neal was not a fighter; when it came to _fight or flight_ , he definitely chose the latter if he had an option. "You might be right, boss," Jones conceded, "Maybe this Eden fellow kidnapped Caffrey and forced him to commit this crime."

Peter welcomed any evidence to support that theory but the thoughts of Neal being physically assaulted both angered and distressed him. If Eden had beaten him before the robbery, what was he likely to do to him now that it was over? He wanted to ask how bad Neal had been hurt, but he didn't. He would read the report himself; plus, he didn't want Mozzie and Elizabeth over reacting. Both sets of eyes were currently dialed in on his face, listening to his every word.

"Well, we have to _find_ them to prove it," Peter replied. "Forward that report to my home email and I'll go over it. Any progress on the security footage?"

"Not yet," he admitted, "I might take a ride over and have them burn me a copy; Hughes said the paperwork is in. But I'll call Chicago first," he paused, "it not quite ten there and I might catch someone who can pull some records. When do you think Caffrey may have run afoul of Eden? It will make it easier to sort through if we can give them a time frame of some kind."

"Tell them to check ten to thirteen years back."

"Geez, boss," Jones remarked. "Neal would have been just a kid back then."

"I know, and Jones," Peter added. "Send them a photo of Neal, too. It's possible he wasn't using the name Caffrey."

During the years Peter had chased Neal, and even since then, he'd never found any records, except for a questionable birth certificate, that he existed before he was eighteen. There were no criminal records, juvenile or otherwise, no school records or medical records to be found. Peter had long suspected that Neal Caffrey was an identity Neal had created for himself when he turned eighteen. He had no idea who, or where, he had been before that. He'd always been curious and now, at least, he knew _where_ Neal had been; Chicago. It entered his mind that whatever trouble he'd gotten into there might have been the reason he had decided to became someone else in the first place.

"Will do," Jones said. "I guess if I get that footage tonight, you want me to bring it on over so you can have a look?"

"Absolutely," Peter stated firmly, "The sooner, the better."

"Something else," Jones sounded hesitant. "Agent Hughes made it very clear that I'm to cooperate with the other agencies investigating this case; I'm to share any information I uncover, and they are _supposed_ to do the same." Peter could tell that Jones, like he, doubted that would be the case. If it were, they'd already have access to the security footage from the Danford Building. "Just thought I should let you know that."

Peter wasn't sure if Jones was trying to warn him that if he turned up something incriminating against Neal he'd have to share it or if he was giving Peter a heads up to not share anything he didn't want to be forwarded to the NYPD or the Marshals. Either way, Peter appreciated the gesture of loyalty.

"I understand you have to let them know whatever we find," Peter acknowledged. "That your job. I wouldn't expect you to do anything less."

"Thank you, sir," Jones replied. "I'll be over as soon as I have anything."

"Good," Peter said, then added a bit awkwardly, "Thank you for putting in the extra time on this, Clinton."

"Not a problem, boss," Came Jones' quick answer. "I'm happy to help."

"Well," Peter chuckled, "I'm not your boss right now and I just want you to know I appreciate it. We'll put on a pot of coffee."

"Sounds good, sir," Jones said. "I have a feeling I'm going to need it."

The call ended and Mozzie began immediately. "By whom, exactly," he asked, "are you running Neal's name and photo by?" Peter could tell he disapproved. "I thought we were looking for Terrence Eden."

"We are, but the Chicago Police Department might be able to help us with that," Peter answered, moving across the room to retrieve his laptop from the coffee table. "They may also be able to verify a history between Neal and Eden."

"I told you there is a history and it's not a good one."

"Saying I got the information from an _anonymous_ source of _my_ anonymous source isn't going to cut it, Mozzie. I need verification."

"I can see the difficulty," Mozzie allowed, looking at his watch with a frown. "I have to be going. I have somewhere to be." His announcement was rather abrupt, like someone who'd just remembered an appointment. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Suit," he said politely to Elizabeth, "I will have to take a rain check on the Earl Grey."

"Anytime, Mozzie," she replied. "You are always welcome." Peter didn't particularly like that but knew it was true. Mozzie and Elizabeth got along great. But then again, Elizabeth could get along with almost anyone.

"It's almost midnight." Peter sat down at the dining room table and opened his computer and glanced at Mozzie. "Where exactly do you need to be?"

"With the suit convention soon to convene," Mozzie retorted, " _anywhere_ but _here_. I'll be in touch."

He opened the door and was about to step out when Peter's voice stopped him. "That phone of yours," he called. "How secure is it?"

Mozzie turned back to Peter, brow raised in question. "Uberly so, Suit, why do you ask?"

The battle within him lasted only a moment. "Because the Marshal Service has the number and is having their techs try to crack your security."

"You gave them my _number?_ " Mozzie's eyes grew wide beneath his glasses, sounding both hurt and horrified at the betrayal.

"No," Peter defended. "They came to the office, demanding full disclosure, and Hughes gave them access to our computers. Just moments before, I might add, we arrived and he suspended me for _not_ reporting Neal missing this afternoon."

"I see," Mozzie seemed to relax at the explanation, or at least, as much as Mozzie ever relaxed in his presence.

"Jones had run Neal's number earlier," Peter went on to explain, "trying to get a location and the call log had only one number on it. Yours."

Mozzie shook his head. "I told him he needed to downgrade his technology and upgrade his security but no, he has to have access to _Pandora_ and _OpenTable._ "

Peter couldn't help but smile; he'd suspected as much. "They were curious and when they ran the number and couldn't get anything at all-" he let his sentence trail off.

"They got _more_ curious," Mozzie finished. "But not to worry," he stated smugly. "They can put the NSA on the job, and they still won't get anywhere."

"You seem pretty confident," Peter commented, still somewhat shocked that he'd just told Mozzie about the Marshal's efforts to hack his phone. "They're pretty good over there, you know."

"Well, I'm _better,_ " Mozzie assured him. He gave Peter an odd look. "But thanks for the heads up, Suit." Mozzie's tone said he had been surprised at the disclosure. He again looked at his watch and, with a sudden exclamation, made a hasty exit. He must really be late for something. Whatever it was, Peter hoped it was something that would help them find Neal.

After the door had closed, Peter rested his head in his hands. No wonder Hughes had taken his badge. His judgment was clearly impaired. He'd not followed procedure when he discovered Neal was off anklet, he'd disobeyed orders to leave the Danford Building, and now he'd interfered in a Federal investigation by telling a person of interest that his phone number had been compromised.

But just like Neal wasn't just a prisoner off anklet, Mozzie was not just a person of interest; things weren't that black and white anymore. He let out a sigh; his life had gotten so complicated since Neal Caffrey became a part of it.

He felt Elizabeth's reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I know things are bad, Peter," she said gently at his ear, "but if anyone can figure this out and find Neal, it's you. And if I know Neal, that's what he's counting on."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Elizabeth brought Peter a cup of freshly brewed coffee and his determination renewed, he accessed his email and found the document Jones had forwarded to him.

Peter skipped over the basic information that every report started with: the case number, reporting officer, Incident type, and address of occurrence. He looked over the witness statement list. There had been half a dozen people who remembered seeing or interacting with the suspect. One name, Michael Farlow, stood out. He was the young man concerned about his job that Peter had spoken to in the security office.

The evidence list was damning; closed-circuit surveillance footage and fingerprints at several locations, including on the dial of the safe in the CEO's office from which the diamonds had been taken.

After that came the narrative. Peter read this section carefully; he had to give Detective Johnson credit. The summary was detailed, straightforward and objective. He had stuck to the facts as he had gathered them but Peter didn't learn anything about the robbery itself he hadn't already learned at the crime scene. At the end of the narrative, Detective Johnson had provided a brief summary of the witness statements.

" _The suspect did not appear to be armed, was polite and courteous and at no time behaved in a threatening manner. Several witnesses noted that the suspect appeared to have been in a physical altercation before his arrival at the Danford Building and described the following injuries; black right eye, a bruise on the right cheek bone, split lower lip, bruise and scrape on chin. See the complete witness statements below."_

That was what had caught Jones' eyes; injuries consistent with a physical assault. Peter clicked through the next pages of statements. They hadn't been typed; they were just scans of the handwritten notes the officers had taken while doing the interviews. The writing varied, as several officers had conducted the interviews, and some were easier to read than others. He straightened up, took a sip of his coffee, and began to scan the documents for any relevant information.

Neal hadn't been social; the first three witnesses hadn't exchanged more than a nod with him, but had remembered him because he "l _ooked like someone had beat the hell out of him_ , " or "h _is face was all messed up_ _like he'd been in a fight or something._ "

Michael Farlow, the man who'd checked Neal into the seminar, was the fourth statement Peter read. Farlow had actually had a short conversation with Neal; he'd even asked him what happened to him. "He said he was injured while playing racket ball. It was rude of me to ask such a personal question," Farlow continued, "but he was really nice about it."

According to the interviewee in the next statement, he had been standing in the line beside Neal when Farlow had asked his rather impertinent question. His rendition of the conversation was the same, except that his statement included a detail that Farlow hadn't mentioned; the racket ball injury had occurred during a game with someone from Bradford & Donnelly. "He was lying," the statement continued. "something had pounded on his face, but it wasn't a racket ball. "

Peter perked up, and it wasn't from the caffeine; he knew Bradford & Donnelly. It was an investment firm located in the Danford Building. In fact, they occupied a suite of offices on the same floor as the Danford Diamond Exchange Company. Neal hadn't been injured playing racketball, and he wouldn't have dropped that name without a reason. He was smart, and as Elizabeth had said, if he were in trouble he'd be counting on Peter to sort things out. Neal was trying to tell him something; he just had to figure out what that was.

There were no other clues to be found in the statement, so he clicked on the final one. It was the statement of the lady who had given Douglas Price his Seminar packet. Even though Neal had spoken to her, it had only been about the seminar. She also noted his somewhat shocking appearance, and then added but _he had the prettiest eyes I've ever seen._

"What?" Elizabeth asked at his side. He looked up in question. "You just snorted," she said, glancing at the computer screen.

"This witness said that Neal had the prettiest eyes she'd ever seen."

"Well," Elizabeth laughed, "he _does_ have pretty eyes. But is there nothing more helpful than that?"

"Maybe," Peter said, clicking back a page. "According to this guy, Neal mentioned Bradford & Donnelly; that's an investment firm located on the same floor as the Diamond Exchange Neal broke into to."

"What did he say about them?"

Peter hesitated. He didn't want to upset Elizabeth and learning that Neal had been hurt would do just that. "Well, it seems that Neal's face was banged up a bit," he tried to soften the news, "and when asked what happened to him, he said something about playing racketball with someone from Bradford and Donnelly."

"Banged up?" she repeated. "You mean someone _hit_ him?"

Probably more than once from the description of injuries, but Peter kept that to himself. "The injuries appear to be minor, El," Peter said, "and it supports the theory that Neal may be acting under duress. So in a way, it's a good thing." He couldn't believe he'd said that, but it was true. Anything that helped establish Neal's innocence in this was a plus. "He made a point to name that company for some reason."

"You think he was trying to tell you who took him?"

"Maybe," Peter said. "He's trying to tell me something; I just don't know _what_." He clicked to the final page of the document; the section titled _Pending._ There wasn't a lot of follow-up actions listed. Facial recognition had already identified the suspect, and fingerprint analysis had already come back as a positive match. The case against Neal Caffrey was solid. There were plans to question staff of Danford Diamond Exchange Company on Monday. Peter guessed that Detective Johnson suspected that there had to be some inside source involved for the Neal to have known exactly when and where to strike. And the name Douglas Price _had_ been on the guest list.

But there was no follow-up to question anyone from Bradford & Donnelly. Peter wondered if someone from that office was behind the robbery; they could be the source of inside information. Occupying the same floor, it was possible that workers between the companies co-mingled at times and information that shouldn't be shared had been. Peter wished he was in his office, with access to his computer and Bureau resources. He could run the Bradford & Donnelly employee list and see if anyone there rang a bell or had a questionable history. Neal had mentioned them for a reason; he just didn't know what that reason was. He had Jones, of course, but Jones was presently visiting the 105th trying to get copies of the security footage. He felt useless, and that was something he didn't handle well.

There was a sudden banging at the door; Elizabeth looked at him in alarm. Peter left the table and moved quickly to the door. He opened it to a very animated Mozzie. He'd only left fifteen minutes earlier.

"I thought you had somewhere else you had to be," Peter commented as Mozzie practically bounced past him and into the room.

"I did, and I _was,_ and I got a call from _Neal!_ " Mozzie said in a rush.

"You talked to _Neal_? Relief flooded Peter. Until now, there was the thought in the back of his mind that Neal may have already been disposed of. "What did he say? _Where_ is he?"

"I was right," Mozzie stated with conviction. "He was _forced_ to steal the diamonds, and now they are forcing him to find a buyer for them."

"He _said_ that?"

"Well, he didn't say it _directly,"_ Mozzie admitted. "I could tell the call was on speaker phone. Someone else, probably Terrence Eden, was listening in. So he had to be careful."

"So what, exactly, did he say?" Peter pressed.

"First, he called me Mr. Haversham. That, in itself, is a distress call," Mozzie began. "Then, he said he needed to liquidate merchandise that was smaller than a _bread basket,"_ Although it was clearly significant, Peter drew a blank. "Bread basket is my _personal_ safe word, Suit," Mozzie explained, "it means things are really, really _bad_."

"I see," Peter gestured for Mozzie to sit but of course he didn't. Too wound up to be contained in one location, he continued to move about the room.

"He said the merchandise was diamonds, cut but unmarked, and that he wanted eight million for them but couldn't take less than seven."

"They're only worth six," Peter responded with a frown, "What makes him think he can get eight?"

Mozzie stopped his pacing, and the look he gave Peter was a cross between impatience and pity. "Marked, they may be worth six," he said, "but _unmarked_ they are worth more."

Not interested at the moment in how the black market assigned value, Peter urged Mozzie to continue. "Whatever," he said impatiently, "Go on, what else?"

"I said I'd be happy to ask around for him but that I was surprised to hear from him; that I'd heard he'd turned over a new leaf. Then he said," he paused for effect, _"I got an offer I couldn't refuse, kind of like the one Ryan Wilkes gave me a while back."_

Ryan Wilkes was an unsavory character from Neal's past. The two had worked together briefly, but Neal found their styles incompatible. Wilkes was a ruthless man who used guns for persuasion and Neal hated violence; he preferred to use his smooth tongue and winning smile to get his way. The partnership ended on less than good terms, when Neal sold Wilkes and his crew out, pocketed $500,000, and disappeared.

Several months ago, Wilkes had kidnapped the daughter of Stuart Gless, the CEO of the company whose bonds Neal had been convicted of forging. Kimberly Rice, an agent who worked kidnappings and missing persons, had requested Neal's assistance in the case. Neal had been apprehensive about facing Gless again but agreed to do whatever he could to help bring the man's daughter back safety. The long and short of it was that Agent Rice, who had no regard for Neal and considered him just a tool on her belt, played right into Wilkes' hands and gave him what he'd wanted all along; Neal Caffrey. Wilkes then forced Neal to perform certain criminal activities on his behalf, his means of persuasion being threats to both Neal and the young girl he was holding hostage. After several tense hours, and with considerable help from Mozzie, the situation ended with the young girl being rescued and Wilkes being arrested. Neal's comparison of this situation to that one was meaningful; he was being forced to do someone else's dirty work.

"He called you; do you have a number?" He asked, "I could have Jones track it."

"No," Mozzie said, "Some people take phone security seriously. He used a burner and a calling card; the number came up as unknown. "

"How is the transfer supposed to work?" Peter asked. "What are the arrangements?"

"He said time was a factor; that he needed this _quick_ ," Mozzie said, "and the funds are to transferred electronically."

An electronic transfer complicated things. "How _quick_?" He was suspended, it was a weekend, and getting access to eight million dollars might prove difficult.

"He said if I couldn't set up the exchange for tomorrow afternoon the deal was a no go."

"That's awfully fast to find someone with eight million dollars," Peter remarked.

"Not if you know where to look," Mozzie retorted.

"How are you supposed to contact him to let him know when you have a buyer?"

Mozzie had stopped his pacing and now looked at Peter intently. "I'm not sure I should tell you, Suit."

He was serious. Peter felt his patience desert him. "Of course, you should tell me," he snapped, "and you _are_ telling me, _now._ "

Mozzie's face grew red. "I'm not _Neal_ ," he retorted, his voice rising, "You don't _own_ me, and you can't order me around!"

A threat to arrest him and haul him down to the Federal Building was on his tongue when Elizabeth's voice rang out.

"That's enough!" Elizabeth seldom yelled, but when she did, it was quite effective. Both men's mouths shut immediately. She stepped in between them, giving each a stern look. "You are both tired, upset and worried about Neal," she continued, "but fighting with each other is not going to get him back."

She was right, and Peter knew it. Bullying Mozzie would get him nowhere, and he knew full well he wasn't going to drag him down to the office. He wasn't even allowed there himself at the moment. He let out a long breath. "You're right, El," he said. "It just that I'm worried about Neal, and this is the first break I've had." He looked at Mozzie. "Sorry," he offered, "I know you're worried about him, too."

Mozzie's face lost its fierceness, and he looked at Elizabeth sheepishly, "I don't suppose you still have that cup of Earl Gray, do you? I really could use it."

"Certainly," she said, "I'll heat it a bit for you." She gave Peter another warning look. "You two, play nice and work _together;_ Neal needs you."

"It's not that I don't want to tell you," Mozzie began hesitantly. "it's just that if I do, and something goes wrong..."

"I know it's a risk," Peter supplied, "but even if you find a buyer and this deal goes off without a hitch, there is no guarantee they won't kill Neal when it's over."

"I know that," Mozzie said, "to be honest, before I got that call, I was afraid they'd killed him already."

Peter had very little in common with Mozzie, but the one thing they did have was Neal Caffrey. "To be honest," he confided, "I was afraid of the same thing. But if we can use this meeting to find him, Mozzie, we can make sure he's safe. That's the most important thing."

"To you maybe, but what about the rest of them?" Mozzie asked, taking the pro-offered cup from Elizabeth, "They don't care what happens to Neal; they just want to arrest him and send him back to prison."

Mozzie had a point. It would take Bureau resources to set something like this up, and once Jones knew he'd have to inform the Marshals and the NYPD. When that happened, there was a good chance that the Marshals would insist on taking the lead themselves. Both the Marshals and the NYPD were convinced that Neal was the perpetrator and not the victim; his well-being would likely not top their list. Especially if anything went wrong.

"They'll arrest him," he admitted, "but you have my word that if someone forced Neal to do this, I will find them and clear his name."

" _If_?" Mozzie repeated, voice rising slightly, tea sloshing in his cup. "Did you not hear _anything_ I've said to _you_?"

"Distress call, safe word, Wilkes, I _heard_ you Mozzie," Peter assured him, "and I think the same thing you do but it might take time to prove it." If Neal had been used as the front man for the crime, it was doubtful the mastermind would be present at the exchange.

"Meanwhile, Neal gets to sit in prison?" Mozzie said.

"This Eden fellow is bad news," Peter stated, "and the sooner we can get Neal away from him the better. He's better off sitting in prison than floating in the East River,"

"I agree," Mozzie conceded, "but I have some reservations with being the one who leads the hounds to the fox, so to speak."

"It's to save his life, Mozzie," Peter insisted. "He'll forgive you."

Mozzie looked less than convinced. "I feel like I'm compromising my principles, going against everything I've ever stood for."

Having done pretty much that very thing ever since he saw that blip on his computer screen jump inexplicably from one place to the other, Peter understood the feeling quite well. "Believe me," he said, "I know how you feel. But at the end of the day, which had you rather sacrifice; your principles or Neal's life?"

Peter knew the answer even though Mozzie didn't verbalize it. "How do you get in touch with Neal?"

There was just a moment's hesitation before Mozzie relented. "I can't. He has to get in touch with me."

"When?" Peter knew there would be a specific time for the call. Mozzie couldn't just leave his phone turned on all the time. After all, some people took phone security seriously.

"Low tide plus three hours and thirty-eight minutes," Mozzie stated through tight lips. "If I have a buyer lined up, he will then give me the when, where and how."

Peter just looked at him, too tired to be surprised. "I have no idea what that means."

Mozzie took a sip of his tea. "Which is precisely the point, Suit."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Mozzie had to give the suit credit; he never once threatened to charge him with obstruction, withholding evidence, or hindering a Federal Investigation. Mozzie knew there were very real risks in being accused of such crimes. Unlike when you were personally being investigated and were permitted not to incriminate yourself, there were no constitutional protections that allowed you to refuse to incriminate a friend. That was why, in such cases, it was best to lie low and avoid detection. If you weren't questioned, you wouldn't have to mislead, lie or evade. But he, of course, had run right into the home of an FBI agent and announced he'd heard from an escaped felon. Even though Agent Burke was suspended, a call to the Junior Suit could have had him hauled in; all they'd have to do was turn on his phone and wait for the call. Burke could have done that, but he hadn't.

Mozzie could tell himself it was because Mrs. Suit would have disapproved, but he was pretty sure there was another reason. It wasn't the first time he and Burke had been prompted to join forces by their concern for a friend but today had been different. Today Agent Burke had listened to his impassioned plea and had chosen to give Neal the benefit of the doubt, to check the facts before jumping to a conclusion. In doing that, he had put both his reputation and his job at risk; two things Mozzie knew he highly valued. It was for that reason, although he had vowed never to trust a member of the Federal Government, that he had gone straight to Peter Burke the minute he had heard from Neal. The two of them were very different people with vastly different worldviews, but today both had sacrificed their principles for a common cause. It had created a bond of sorts, an unspoken understanding between them. It was for that reason the Suit hadn't threatened him with either legal or physical threats when he refused to share what could rightfully be considered vital information in an investigation.

Once it was evident the time of the call would not be a part of the discussion, Burke had moved on to ask what the logistics of such a transaction would entail. Mozzie had given him the benefit of his expertise on the subject. A sale like this required only one meeting, held in a private location agreed upon by both parties. This case would be different; Neal had made it clear that the seller would be dictating the location. The two principle parties would meet, often accompanied by an expert provided by the buyer for verification of the merchandise. Then, once the buyer was satisfied that he was getting what he was promised, the transaction would be completed. Usually, it was a duffle bag of cash that exchanged hands, but in this instance, the money was to be transferred electronically. Once the fund transfer was received, the buyer was free to take his merchandise and the deal was done.

It was then the Suit's turn to share his expertise on how the other side of things worked. None of what he described as the likely course of events brought Mozzie any comfort, and he sensed that even Agent Burke had an uneasy feeling about it. It would not be the agents of White Collor taking the lead; it would likely be the Marshal Service with back up from the NYPD. Neal had sent distress signals and would be expecting to see some familiar faces at the meeting; Peter, Jones, Diana or even Mozzie himself. How he'd respond to being met by strangers, especially when the order was given to apprehend him, was uncertain. It was also a cause for concern that neither of them knew exactly _how_ Eden was forcing Neal to do his bidding. Wilkes had used a sniper with his scope trained on Neal's back as well as threats to harm a young girl; what Eden's methods of control were was yet to be determined. With so many unknowns, there were numerous opportunities for the plan to derail. Mozzie admitted reluctantly that he would feel less apprehensive if Agent Burke were in charge; at least he cared about Neal's well-being in his own strange and often obtuse way. As it was, Neal's life was being placed in the hands of people who thought of him as just another criminal and cared nothing about him either professionally _or_ personally.

Burke admitted it was less than the ideal situation but assured him that Jones would reiterate to the Marshals, and to the NYPD, that Neal Caffrey was not a violent offender and that there was no reason to treat him as such. Even with the risks involved, he insisted, it was still better to get Neal away from Eden before his usefulness ran out. Better in jail than in the East River, he had said. From what little Mozzie had been able to gather on his own and from Burke about Terrence Eden, he had to agree. Still, as he listened to how Neal's capture was likely to go down, he felt like a traitor.

"I will be back here no later than nine-thirty in the morning," Mozzie told Peter. Once the discussion, and his tea, were finished he was eager to take his leave. He knew Clinton Jones could arrive at any moment, and he wasn't sure he would receive the same allowances from him that he had from Peter Burke. The Junior Suit was likely to want to exercise his new position of power and arrest him on the spot. It was best for him to lie low and avoid detection until tomorrow. "I will attempt to give, and get, as much information as I can and I'll push the meeting time out as far as possible."

"Good," Peter said, "Agent Jones will need to be here in the morning, but that's it; he can arrange a briefing with the others afterward. And we'll keep your name out of it."

"You don't _know_ my name, Suit."

"That just makes it simpler."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter knew Jones was the on the job, and that contacting the Chicago police department and then visiting their own NYPD to get a copy of the security footage would take some time. Still, it didn't take long after Mozzie's departure for him to begin to grow and more impatient.

He was glad Jones hadn't arrived earlier; He doubted Mozzie would have been willing to share any information with, as he had called it, a Suit Convention. Even though Mozzie had been quick to inform Peter about the phone call he'd received, probably because he felt it gave validity to what he'd said all along, he had still refused to tell Peter when the second phone call was to take place. All he knew was that it would be before nine-thirty the following morning; that was the time Mozzie had promised to return to the Burke house.

He and Mozzie had briefly discussed the way things were likely to progress once the time and place of the meeting had been set. Mozzie had concerns and, although he had tried to downplay them, Peter had them as well. It was most likely that Neal would be the one sent to make the deal, and if one tossed out the idea that he was working with Eden out of choice, that meant Eden had some way of ensuring he would do as he was instructed. The same had to have been true in the Danford Building. Peter had originally wanted to study the footage to determine if Neal was acting of his own volition but at this point, he was pretty sure he wasn't. Now he hoped it would give him an indication of how Eden was monitoring Neal's actions and what method of persuasion he was using to control him. Before the projected meeting took place those questions needed to be answered. That, in addition to the news he had to give Jones, was what was fueling his impatience

His phone rang at twelve-twenty-five. "Having problems with the Detectives from the 105th?"

"Didn't even _see_ a detective at the 105th," Jones sounded irritable. Of course, it was an extremely early Sunday morning, and he'd spent most of his Saturday on the job. "Guess they've all called it a night. No one there was authorized to release the footage. Or so I was told; I have to go back in the morning."

That didn't surprise Peter. The NYPD had identified their suspect; in their minds, the investigation was practically complete. They'd issued a warrant for Neal's arrest, put out an APB and sent his photo to every train station, bus station, airport, and car rental service in the tri-state area. All standard procedure to apprehend a suspect on the run; none of which had ever worked for Neal Caffrey.

Having left the 105th empty-handed, Peter thought Jones might decide to call it a night and resume in the morning. But Peter had news to give him and he wanted to do it in person. He was trying to figure out the best way to get Jones to stop by regardless of his lack of information when Jones words stopped him.

"I didn't get the footage," he way saying, "but I do _have_ something; Is it too late to come on over?"

"Of course not," Peter said. "What do you have?"

"I got a call from our counterparts in Chicago, Cybercrime Division."

He'd expected to hear about Jones' conversation with the Chicago Police Department; not his conversation with their Chicago counterparts. " _Cybercrimes?_ " he repeated in surprise. "What did they want?"

"To know what our interest was in Terrence Eden. And to know if he was here in New York. Apparently, they'd _lost_ him."

If they'd lost him, that must mean they were having him surveilled. "They looking at him for something?"

"Oh yeah," Jones said. "I'll fill you in when I get there. Should be about ten minutes."

"See you in ten."

It was less than that when Peter opened the door to a tired-looking Clinton Jones. He stepped through the door, gave Elizabeth a nod of greeting and began speaking before Peter could even ask any of the questions he intended to pose. "I got the call just after I talked to you," Jones told Peter as he entered the front door. "They wanted to know what prompted our inquiry in Terrence Eden."

"What did you tell them?" Peter asked.

"That his name had come up during an investigation of a diamond robbery here in New York. That surprised them," Jones related. "They seem to think he's moved from boots on the ground jobs to a more virtual kind. They're looking at him for a series of cyber crimes that's taken place over the past year or so."

It was the new frontier in crime; most of the agents in that division were fresh faces with lightning fast keyboard skills. The internet may have put the world at the fingertips, but that applied to the fingertips of criminals as well.

"What kind of cyber crimes?" Peter asked, "What put him on their radar?"

"He's suspected of using computer hackers to get past the security of several credit unions and investments firms. He gets access to their systems, then steals their clients' blind. Electronic transfers are relayed through so many different routes they been impossible to trace. They estimate that so far he's made off with close to a million. The Cybercrime Division got on his trail about six months ago and had been trying to build a case ever since."

"These credit unions Federally insured?"

"They were Federally insured and _across state lines._ " Either one of the two would give the Feds the right to usurp the case from the locals. "Eden's partnered up with some creative accountant who knows the ins and outs of internet banking and they've hit targets in Illinois, Wisconsin, and Michigan."

That was still a long way from New York. "How did they manage to _lose_ him?" Peter asked.

"They don't know," Jones said, "and they were pretty uptight about it. They'd gotten word that Eden was planning a big job; the kind to retire on. They suspected a central bank or securities firm in Chicago. They stepped up surveillance hoping to get more information, a target, and a time frame, but somehow, a week ago, he just dropped off the grid."

"So when you ran his name through the system, they jumped right on it." A stirring thought was beginning to form in the back of Peter's mind.

"Yes, and they asked to be notified if we turn up anything definite that places him here, or in any way ties him to this robbery. They're sending me some background to see if we can tie anything there into our case."

"When?" The electronic transfer that Neal had mentioned seemed to fit with Eden's new MO even if the diamond heist didn't.

"Soon," Jones said. "May even have it in my email now. I'll set up and see if it's there." Peter motioned towards the table and followed as Jones moved to the dining area.

"Bradford & Donnelly," Peter said suddenly, the stirring mist of thought finally taking a definitive shape.

Jones, who was placing his computer on the table opposite of Peter's, looked up at him in question. _"What?_ "

"They're probably the largest Wealth Management Firm on the East Coast," Peter continued, "and they are located in the Danford Building."

Jones' brow furrowed. "Yeah," he nodded, probably recalling the list of business he'd rattled off on the way to the crime scene earlier, "they were right across the hall from the Danford Diamond Exchange Company."

"Neal _mentioned_ them," Peter stepped around to his computer and clicked to the next to last statement. "In the witness statements; he was asked about what happened to his face and he said he was injured during a racketball game with someone from _Bradford & Donnelly_."

He knew Neal was trying to tell him something. He'd thought perhaps it was the inside source or even the person behind the scheme, but now he was thinking it was something else. Eden had been planning a big job; something to retire on. The diamonds Neal had stolen may be worth eight million to the right buyer, but access to Bradford & Donnally client's assets? That could be worth _hundreds_ of millions. Quite the retirement plan.

"You think Eden came here to hit Bradford & Donnelly?" Jones had followed his train of thought. "But why would he kidnap Neal and send him to take the diamonds?"

It had bothered Peter from the beginning how obvious the crime had been. There was little doubt of who the perpetrator was and what had been taken, and he'd wondered why Neal had bothered to tamper with the cameras since he had already been captured on the footage. Even then, it had entered his mind that there may have been something else going on in the building that someone wanted to remain undetected.

"Maybe that wasn't all he was sent to do," Peter ventured. "he disabled the cameras. That means he, or even someone else, could have gotten into Bradford & Donnelly and there would be no record of it. Cybercrimes said Eden was planning a big job, and you can't get much bigger than Bradford & Donnelly."

"According to the report no other offices in the building were breached."

"None anyone _knew_ of," Peter corrected. "The NYPD didn't check the building; Building _Security_ did that. They started their sweep with the Diamond Exchange Company, and when they found the safe open, they assumed that was the target of the break in. The rest of their sweep was just a cursory visual and of course they wouldn't have found anything out of place. Once the NYPD arrived on the scene and identified Neal Caffrey, well, they didn't bother to looking any further, either. They had their crime and their suspect."

"But wouldn't Bradford & Donnelly _know_ if they'd been hacked?"

"Not necessarily if these guys are that good," Peter said. "They might not realize it at all until their accounts start getting hit. That could be now, next week or next month. Once Eden has access to their system, he can take his own sweet time ciphering money from the clients' accounts into his own."

"The NYPD isn't going to explore that option without more to go on than just our suppositions," Jones remarked. "we aren't exactly their favorite people right now. We need something that ties Eden to this."

"We need Neal," Peter said, thinking forward to Sunday afternoon. "He dropped that name because he knows that it was Eden's real target. _He_ is the link between this job and Terrence Eden."

"Peter," Jones had lowered his voice, his face wrought with concern, "I told the Agent from Cyber Crimes what we thought may have happened to Neal. He said that if it were true, Neal was in real danger. Once Eden is done with someone, he gets rid of them; he doesn't leave _loose ends._ That's one of the reasons they've had a hard time making a case against him."

Peter, experiencing a wave of guilt at the look of distress on Jones' face, spoke quickly. "He's alive, Jones,"he assured him, "Neal called Mozzie. I was going to tell you when you got here, but-"

" _What?"_ Jones' voice was sharp, his look going in an instant from worry to relief to irritation. "When? Where _is_ he?"

"Just a little while ago and I don't know where he is," Peter answered. "He called Mozzie and asked him to find a buyer for the diamonds." Peter held up his hand before Jones could launch another serious of questions. "According to Mozzie the call was on speaker and Neal used several phrases that, in the Neal-Mozzie dynamic, means he is in trouble. He said something else, too," Peter related. "He said he'd been given an offer he couldn't refuse, much like the one _Ryan Wilkes_ gave him awhile back."

Jones knew just as well as he did what had happened during that incident. "At least he's still alive," Jones said. "And you were right; you said he'd think of something, and he did. He's found a way to stay useful a bit longer. So," He raised his eyebrows expectantly, "what _else_ have you been holding out on me?"

Peter filled him in on everything he'd learn from, and discussed with, Mozzie. He went on to explain about the follow-up call that would come sometime between now and morning and how Mozzie had promised to return at nine thirty the next morning to give them an update. Jones, as he had suspected, wasn't thrilled with how Peter had elected to deal with the situation but in the end, realizing there was no other recourse, he accepted the constraints Mozzie had imposed.

"I _have_ to inform the others that Neal has made contact," Jones said reluctantly, "and once the Marshals know about the meeting, they are going to insist on being the ones to bring him in; they probably won't even let us _be_ there."

"I know that," Peter said, "and I explained that to Mozzie as well. But," he said, glancing at his watch, "it _is_ nearly one am and we won't know anything _definite_ until in the morning. I don't see any reason to make that call right now, do you?"

"Well, they've all called it a night already," Jones said reproachfully, "so I vote we let them sleep." He opened up his computer and pulled out the chair. "Meanwhile, let's see if Cyber Crimes has sent me that file yet. Any of that coffee left?"

"Fresh pot," Elizabeth said from the kitchen.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

By the time Peter had returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee, Jones had pulled up his email and found the promised file from the Cyber Crimes Unit.

"Looks pretty extensive," he commented, skimming his monitor. "General background on Eden and his suspected criminal activities in Chicago as well as the background on the current investigation. Where do you want to start?"

"The beginning," Peter answered. He wasn't interested in Eden's _entire_ criminal history, but he was curious as to what activities he'd been involved in ten to thirteen years ago. "Can you send that to my laptop? Two eyes are better than one and I can't stand reading over someone else's shoulder."

"Sure," Jones said, and with a few clicks, the file was sent. "If you want to start at the beginning, I'll jump ahead to his current activities and known associate and see if anything rings a bell."

Instead of just a long list of charges, levied, prosecuted or dropped, the files that had been sent followed a narrative format. They began with basic information and then summarized the criminal career of Terrence Eden. It left little doubt as to the character of the man. A troubled teen from less than an ideal family situation, Eden ran afoul of the law early, being arrested numerous times before his twenty-first birthday. Prison time didn't reform him; it only hardened him. After his second stint in prison in his late twenties, Eden had, if not changed his career goals, changed his path to achieve them.

He began to exploit the city's disenfranchised and downtrodden, recruiting the homeless, runaways and kids from problem homes as foot soldiers in his own personal criminal army. He offered them what they wanted most, shelter, protection, or access to their drug of choice, and by doing so, created a strong sense of loyalty within his ranks. Authorities were continually frustrated when suspects they knew were taking orders from Eden refused to implicate or incriminate him. They kept their mouths shut and did their time and Eden went about his business untouched.

Suspected of running one of the largest burglary rings on the South Side, Eden didn't limit himself to just that. His crew ran drugs, collected protection money from both legitimate and illegitimate businesses within his sphere of influence, and stole credit cards and personal information that could be used for a variety of purposes. No matter what the scheme, he managed to keep his hands clean. He had been implicated in a prostitution and human trafficking case once, but there hadn't been enough evidence to pursue an investigation. Once again, those who could have provided evidence to implicate him either refused to do so or simply disappeared.

These activities coincided with the time Peter suspected Neal had been in Chicago; it seemed likely that he had been one of Eden's recruits. Peter wondered how it had happened, how Neal had fallen into Eden's grasp. Had he been a troubled kid or a just a kid in trouble? What had Neal needed that Eden had provided? It wasn't drugs, Peter was confident, but it had been something. Protection from an abuser? A place to live? Food to eat? How old had he been when Eden found him and how long had he worked for the man? Of course, there was nothing in the files that provided Peter with answers to those questions. Names were occasionally mentioned, full names of suspects that were arrested, but only first names or nicknames for other members of Eden's crew. Peter found himself looking at the Eddies, Roberts, and Skinny's and Jon's wondering if any of them were, in fact, _Neal_. But again, nothing in the narrative could tell him that, or what Neal's life had been like or what had prompted him to leave Chicago and move to New York.

When Neal had broken company with Ryan Wilkes, it had been because he didn't like the way Wilkes did business. He would imagine that Neal wouldn't have liked the way Eden did business, either. Of course, instead of just ending the partnership with Wilkes, he'd elected to sell the man out and line his pockets in the process. He wondered if he'd done a similar thing with Eden, thus provoking the man to seek him out for revenge.

"Boss," Jones said suddenly, "I've found something." His tone indicated it was substantial, and Peter looked up from the screen expectantly. "Evan McAllister is the banking whiz that's brought Eden into the twenty-first century of crime. He doesn't have a record, but you're never going to believe where he used to work."

"Bradford & Donnelly." Somehow Peter just knew it.

"He left two years ago and moved to Chicago," Jones informed him. "I think that qualifies as a possible link between Eden and this crime, don't you?" Even without a clear tie between Neal and Terrence Eden, the fact that McAllister had been employed with Bradford & Donnelly made a connection a reasonable conclusion.

"I think it's too much to be a coincidence," Peter said. "Especially given that Eden was here, looking for Neal, and Neal made a point to name that company."

"You know what this means?" Jones asked, looking energized in spite of the hour.

"It means this case may get kicked back to the Bureau," Peter stated.

"Exactly," Jones agreed, "Once I let Cyber Crimes know there's a connection they're going to insist on it. I may have to inform the Marshals and the NYPD about what we've learned, but they're not going to be able to follow through with it."

"Cyber Crimes have been after Eden for six months," Peter agreed, "and they will see this as their best chance to finally get him. They'll want to take the lead." They'd also appreciate Agent Jones for locating their missing suspect and informing them of his current activities. That, Peter guessed, might get White Collar an invitation to assist. After all, Neal Caffrey _was_ their CI.

"Once we get Neal back and they talk to him," Jones continued, "they'll have enough to issue warrants. And this time, the charges will stick because they'll finally have a witness."

It was true; Neal could go from being the NYPD's prime suspect to the star witness in a Federal Investigation. For the first time in hours, Peter felt hopeful. He'd shared Mozzie's concerns about the Marshal Service being the one to meet with Neal, but if the case reverted back to the FBI that would no longer be a problem. There was even a chance that Cyber Crimes would let White Collar handle the meeting. But regardless of whether it was Cyber Crimes or White Collar that met with Neal, both had a vested interest in making sure he remained safe. Although he still had concerns about how the meeting would progress, Peter felt more optimistic about it than he had before.

If things went well, by this time tomorrow, Neal could be free, cleared of all charges, and safe. Peter might even consider asking Jones to give him Monday off.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Mozzie had been awake since six fifteen, going over in his mind what he'd say to Neal when the call came in at nine. Even though he understood this was a way to get Neal away from whoever was holding him, he still felt uneasy about being the one to lead the authorities to his friend. Neal had given him multiple distress signals to convey the seriousness of his situation, and he _was_ sending help; it just wasn't coming in its usual form. It wouldn't be the Suit and his team there to save Neal; it would be the United States Marshals and the NYPD there to _arrest_ him. Mozzie wanted to find a way to convey that so Neal wouldn't be surprised when he was met by strangers instead of friends.

He had told Agent Burke that he would get, and give, as much information as he could but that wasn't an easy feat when the conversation was being monitored. He also guessed the exchange would be kept exceedingly short, with Neal doing most of the talking.

"Speak and be heard." It was Mozzie's standard answer. Also standard was the notepad and pen at the ready.

"Do you have a good word for me?" This call, like its predecessor, was being held on speaker phone. Mozzie strained his ears for any ambient sounds. Airplane engines taxing on a nearby runway or roaring overhead would indicate a location near an airfield, possibly a rented hanger; harbor bells could mean the call was coming from a waterfront property. Even an emergency vehicle, if he noted it's type and exact time of its passing, might narrow down the possibilities of where Neal was being held.

"I have an interested party," Mozzie informed him, pen remaining still in his hand at no detectable sounds. "But seven and a quarter is the best he can do. If the seller is willing to give him twenty-four hours, he may be able to bump it up an additional five hundred thousand." He knew the Feds would come up with whatever number was necessary, but Mozzie didn't want the deal to sound like it had come too easily. In spite of what he'd said to Agent Burke, it was hard to find people with that kind of money, and those who did have it kept their funds diversified. It would take time to gather resources and access such a large amount. Someone like Terrence Eden would likely know that.

"Seven and a quarter is good enough." Neal's response was quick; there had been no pause, no sound of the phone being covered for an exchange of words. "This needs to happen _today."_ There was a sense of urgency that Mozzie knew was genuine. "My associate has travel plans that cannot be delayed."

"I told him time was a factor," Mozzie said, "but he still wanted me to ask. And he insists on having someone verify the value of the items. He wants to make sure he's getting what he's paying for before he'll agree to move a penny. Will that be a problem?"

"Not as long as he provides the expert and the evaluation is done at the meeting; there can be no secondary locations or additional meetings. This is a one and done."

"I get it," Mozzie assured him, "Travel plans and all that. I'll let him know. Time and location?"

This time, there _was_ a pause before Neal gave an answer. "Two-thirty," he said after a moment, "Give the buyer your phone and tell him to be at the parking garage at 270 Dykeman Street with his expert by _two-fifteen_. I'll call this number then and tell him where he needs to be."

The Dykeman Street Parking Garage was located on the north end of Manhattan and between two public parks; Fort Tryon and Inwood Hills. Either one would provide numerous locations for a meeting to held in a public place and yet go virtually unnoticed by passer byes. He had arranged more than one such exchange at a chess table in one of the city's many parks. It was a great paradox of public spaces; the busier a place was, the less observant those who frequented it became of the activities of those around them.

"270 Dykeman, two-fifteen. Got it. Look," he began tentatively, "Mr. _Marshall_ isn't someone we've worked with before, so _trust_ is somewhat of an issue with him. Do you understand?"

There was a slight pause. "I take it none of the _usual_ go-to's were able to come up with the money on such short notice?"

"Something like that," Mozzie told him, "But since time was such a factor, I had to work with what, and _who,_ was available."

"I see." Neal's voice was strained and after a moment of silence, Mozzie spoke again.

"You still _there_?" He knew he'd given Neal news he didn't like, but people being held prisoner by vindictive criminals couldn't be choosey about who came to rescue them. And since the Suit had been benched, Neal was stuck with the Marshals. Better in jail than dead, after all.

"Yeah," Neal responded, "I'm here. Anything _else_ I should be aware of?"

Mozzie knew his window of opportunity was quickly closing. "He's a bit paranoid," he warned, "so he's probably going to insist on having a thug or two along for security. And you know how _that_ works."

"For every one you see there are two you don't."

"Exactly," Mozzie said, "So just remember, there may be more eyes on you than you know and sudden moves _will not_ be your friend." It was as close to a warning not to resist as he could manage under the circumstances.

"I'll keep that in mind," Neal replied, "but tell Mr. Marshal that it's in _everyone's-"_ he emphasized the word, _"_ best interest that this exchange go quickly and smoothly. Tell him to have the funds ready to transfer when he arrives. As soon as his expert signs off, he'll be given the account number, and once the deposit is verified at the other end, he will be free to take his merchandise and go."

"I'll let him know. Anything else you want me to tell him?"

"Yeah, tell him to wear a Brighton Baron's sweatshirt and be prepared to walk."

"Brighton _Barons_?" Mozzie's tone was questioning as he jotted down the information. If it was a clue Mozzie was missing it. "Is that a _team_ of some kind?"

"Yes, it is," Neal confirmed, "Tell him to have his expert wear one, too."

Matching shirts and walking shoes; Mozzie had seen this before. Eden wanted to spot the buyer from a distance without being seen himself. Then, he'd send his customer to various locations, often from phone booth to phone booth, with spotters strategically placed to observe his movements. Once he was sure he wasn't being followed, he'd send him to the final meeting location. Not a standard practice, per se, but some of the more cautious employed this additional security measure. It would make the Marshal's job of covering the meeting location and providing backup for their agents even more difficult.

"I'll make sure Mr. Marshal has all this information, and I'll give him my phone." Although it had already gone on longer than he'd expected it to, Mozzie was reluctant to end the call. "Anything else I need to know?"

Again there was a pause, and when Neal spoke, Mozzie didn't like his tone of voice nor his choice of words.

"Just that no matter how things turn out, I appreciate everything you've done for me. You've been a good friend, Moz."

He called him Moz instead of Mr. Haversham, but it wasn't a mistake or a slip of the tongue. It was purposeful and the slight inflection in his voice when he'd said it indicated the words were prompted by a sentiment that Neal rarely expressed. There had been a subtle change in Neal's tone ever since he'd learned it would be the Marshals and not his usual White Collar crowd meeting him at two-thirty. First strained and now emotional, Mozzie realized that Neal, too, was concerned about what might happen at the meeting.

Hearing the unexpected emotion in his friend's voice make it a struggle for Mozzie to keep his own steady, but he did. "Likewise, Mon frère."

Neal said nothing more and the call was over. Mozzie looked over his notes; the meeting time and basic location were set and if things went well, Neal would be free from Terrence Eden by the afternoon. Mozzie wanted to feel hopeful but instead, he felt uneasy.

Neal's last words to him had sounded a lot like goodbye.


	20. Chapter 20

_Thank you for all the encouragement. It really does mean more than you think. This chapter seemed so much longer than the word count indicated. :)_

 **Chapter Twenty**

Even though things finally appeared to be taking a positive turn, Peter still had a difficult time falling asleep. The information he'd read about Eden and his Chicago activities weighed heavily on his mind. He kept wondering what Neal's life had been like in Chicago, what he'd done in Eden's crew and more importantly, how he had gotten out of it. From everything he'd read, people didn't just quit once they worked for Terrence Eden and he wondered if that was why Eden had a score to settle with Neal. Maybe Neal hadn't robbed him, maybe he'd just found a way to get away from him. As much as he liked to think he knew all about Neal Caffrey, this case had shown him how untrue that really was. There was a lot he didn't know; especially about _before_ he was Neal Caffrey.

When he did finally fall asleep, his dreams were plagued with images of Neal. Sometimes he was the Neal Peter knew _now,_ confident and cocky, but sometimes, and more disturbingly, he _wasn't._ Sometimes he was a much younger version, a scared and desperate Neal, all alone in a big city. In his dreams, whether the present Neal or the past one, he was hurt or in danger of being hurt, and no matter how hard Peter tried to reach him he never was able to get to him before he disappeared. He'd awakened from such dreams several times during the night. Elizabeth had also been up late, and he knew his tossing and turning had disrupted her sleep as well. She hadn't moved when he crept out of the bed, so he'd dressed as quietly as he could and went downstairs. He fixed coffee and had a cup as he re-read the files the Cyber Crimes had forwarded to Jones. He and Jones had gone through them thoroughly the night before, and other than the tie between Terrence Eden's partner Evan McAllister and Bradford & Donnelly, they had found nothing else helpful. Even so, he was reading it just in case they'd missed something when Jones arrived at the Burke house. Again, he had his computer in tow.

"I got it," he said as he entered. "I got a copy of the security footage from yesterday afternoon. I told them I wanted it all, not just the clips they used to identify Neal. That way we can check everyone who came and went, and if Eden or McAllister were there, we could spot them."

Peter looked at his watch; it was just before nine, a half hour before Mozzie had promised to return and tell them about his latest conversation with Neal. Hopefully, they'd have time to look through the footage to see if it revealed more about what had happened at the Danford Building and what Eden might be using to control his proxy. "Did you hear back from Cyber Crimes yet?"

"First thing this morning," Jones again had moved straight to the dining room to set up his computer. "The Agent heading up the case is named Don Littleton and he was on his way to meet with his SAC when he called me. I have a feeling Agent Hughes will be getting a call from Chicago, and that Agent Littleton will be on a plane to New York as soon as he can arrange it. This is a big break in a big case for them."

"Have you briefed Agent Hughes yet?" Even though it was Sunday morning, it would be much better for Hughes to hear about what they had found from Agent Jones and not from some SAC half way across the country. He could take offense to that and Peter didn't want any part of that; he was in enough trouble.

"I called him as soon as I got off the phone with Agent Littleton," Jones assured him. "I think he hoped I was calling him to tell him we'd found Neal, but I told him we did have a solid lead and had also turned up information that ties this case to a Federal one."

"Did he press you about the source of information?" Hughes had been good to leave him to his own devices, but with the scrutiny the office was under at the time, he might keep a tighter rein on Jones.

"I had to tell him where we got it," Jones admitted. "I also told him we thought Neal might have been taken by Terrence Eden and _forced_ to commit this robbery."

"Did he _believe_ you?" Peter had wanted to tell Hughes that yesterday, but since he had nothing but his own gut to support his theory, it hadn't seemed wise.

"He seemed pretty skeptical but when I filled him in on everything we've learned..." Jones shrugged. "I think he's willing to entertain the thought. Anyway, clearing Neal goes a long way in clearing _you_ , and in getting White Collar off the hot seat."

"How about the others?" Peter asked. "Made _those_ calls yet?"

"Agent Hughes said he'd take care of it," he answered, opening his computer and pressing the power button. "He said he'd contact Agent Donaldson and Captain Ramsey and tell them we have new information. We will be holding a briefing at the White Collar Office at ten-thirty this morning; if they want to know what we've got, they have to come to find out."

"And by then," Peter mused, "there's a good chance this case will be back in the jurisdiction of the Bureau."

"That's what he's anticipating," Jones replied, "and he wants to be the one to give them _that_ update as well. In _person._ "

Peter wasn't much one for cross-jurisdictional meetings, but this was one he actually hated he'd be missing. "I'd pay to see the look on their faces when he boots them off this case."

"I'll take a picture," Jones chuckled, inserting the drive with the security footage into the side of his laptop. "and we can settle up later. This computer doesn't have the bells and whistles we have at the office," Jones explained, getting back to business, "but it should work good enough. Start with the ones of Neal?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Let's start there."

Peter knew everything Neal had done; he'd read the report. He knew he'd used a fake identity to get past security, had lifted a guards security pass, picked up his Seminar Packet from the Welcome table before leaving the lobby and taking the stairs to the third floor. There, he'd used the card to enter the security office. But being told about it, or even reading about it, wasn't the same as seeing it himself. He settled in behind Jones as he pulled up the first clip.

Neal had entered the front door with several people, and even from the distance of the camera and a wide lens view the quality of the image was clear. Peter knew from the statements that Neal's face was banged up, but his breath still caught at the sight of his black eye and the purple bruise on his jaw. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn on Friday right down to the bright blue tie. Only his hat was missing from his earlier attire. He moved a few paces into the lobby and stopped, his expression tense as his eyes moved about the room. He stood there a full minute before he stepped forward into one of the five lines that had been set up to take invitations and check ids. At that point, his image was no longer visible and Jones closed out the clip and opened another.

This footage was taken from the camera on the right side of the lobby, with a clear view of the row of security checkpoints. Neal was in the line second to the right, behind a lady in a gray business suit. This camera's view was closer, so the image was clear. When Neal reached the podium, he handed Michael Farlow his invitation. The young man was so busy at his task that he didn't look up until after Neal had handed him the second document. When Farlow glanced up, a look of surprise crossed his face. The short conversation Peter had read about then took place between Farlow, Neal and the guy in line beside him. Once that exchange was finished and Farlow handed Neal his id, he proceeded past Farlow and around to the left to pick up his Orientation Packet. Peter knew that Neal had taken Farlow's security badge, and that was when the snatch occurred; when he stepped past Farlow the badge, which had been clipped to Farlow's right shirt pocket, was no longer there. Moving away from the camera in the other direction, the camera only caught Neal's back and that only until someone took place in line behind him. Again Jones closed the footage from Lobby Cam #2 and pulled up #3.

Lobby Cam #3 was positioned on the left lobby wall above the double doors that accessed the large room in which the Seminar was to be held.

"What's he doing?" Peter asked after about thirty seconds into the clip.

"Waiting in line?" Jones replied. Neal was obviously waiting in line, but that wasn't what Peter was referring to. Neal seemed restless, moving from side to side. At the security checkpoint, he'd remained stationary as he waited his turn but now he was continually shifting his weight from one foot to the other. There had been a dramatic change in his body language in just a few steps from one place to the other and Peter wasn't sure why.

"No," Peter said, "look at him; he's all over the place; it's like he can't stand still."

"Maybe he's just nervous about what's to come," Jones proposed.

It was a reasonable thought except that it was _Neal._ The more uptight he became, the more composed he appeared to be. It likely a survival skill; in his line of work, both past, and present, confidence was everything. If you lost it, you lost your advantage. Even when he _was_ shaken up, Neal did a remarkable job of keeping it hidden. It was one of the many things that made him a hard man to both read or understand.

"No, the more nervous Neal gets, the calmer he appears," Peter reminded Jones. "That's how he handles stress. This isn't like him."

"What you thinking?"

"I'm not sure," Peter admitted, watching the clip until Neal reached the table, spoke to the lady and took his packet. "Go back and play it again."

"What are you two watching?" Elizabeth spoke from behind them, and Peter jumped; he hadn't heard her come down the stairs.

"Morning, El," he said turning to greet her. "Jones brought the footage from the robbery, and we're just taking a look before Mozzie gets here."

She stepped to where she too could see the computer screen. "Oh, Peter," she said immediately. "Look at his _face._ "

"I know." Peter understood her anxiety; he'd felt the same sinking feeling when he first saw Neal, too. "He's banged up, but he's moving okay, so his injuries probably look worse than the are." He hoped that was true and that it remained true even now.

"What's not like him?" She asked.

"What?"

"When I came down you said, _This isn't like him_ ," she replied, "What were you talking about?"

"Oh," he gestured towards the screen. "Just the way he's bouncing all over the place in line there."

"He looks tense," she observed, "maybe he's agitated and, wait," she paused. "What is he doing with his hands? Is he _counting?"_

Elizabeth was right. Although his hands remained at his side, Neal's fingers were moving in an unusual way.

"He's not counting," Jones said, leaning in as if getting closer would make the image clearer, "but he is doing something."

"He's signing!" Peter erupted, his excitement making his voice louder than proximity required. "Can you zoom in a bit?"

"He's _what?_ "Jones asked even as he adjusted the video.

"Signing," Peter repeated, reaching over beside his computer and grabbing the pen and notepad from last night. "It's called fingerspelling. I had a friend who taught me in high school. Go back to when he first got in line."

Jones did as he was told, restarting the clip. It had been a while since Peter had even thought about fingerspelling and he'd never been particularly good at it, so he was lost within seconds. Neal's fingers were quick. He shook his head. "Can you start it again and slow it down some?" he asked Jones.

Jones repeated the process but this time ran the video at half speed. Peter began again, jotting down each letter as Neal signed it. Some letters were easy to recognize and some he'd never really known to begin with but the first two words he got without missing a letter. _Terrence Eden._ Neal had signed _Terrence_ with his right hand, stepped to the other sign and used his left to sign _Eden_. Neal was in line for just under three minutes and what had likely appeared as nervous fidgeting to onlookers, and those who had previously viewed the footage, had been his way of sending a message.

Each time there was a letter he didn't recognize Peter just made a dash and having realized that Neal was moving side to side with each word helped him separate each set of letters into words. So intent on watching Neal's fingers, he didn't have much time to decipher what he was writing until the signs ceased. That happened when Neal reached the table and began speaking to the lady manning it. At that point, Peter looked over the words scrawled across the page. It wasn't hard to fill in the missing letters.

"Damn," He swore softly when he had completed Neal's message. The first six words confirmed what they'd already pieced together but the second seven gave unexpected information. It did, however, answer the question Peter had wanted answered; how Eden was pulling Neal's strings. "We have a problem."

"Just one?" Jones scoffed, "Why? What did he say?"

"Neal isn't the only person Eden's taken," Peter stated, handing the paper to Jones. "That's what he's using to make Neal do what he says; he's got someone else, too."

Jones scanned the page. "A _hostage."_ That was the term Neal had used and Jones looked up at Peter. "Just like Wilkes." Like Peter, he realized the comparison Neal had made between the two situations had been more similar than they'd suspected. "He used a little girl to make Neal do what he wanted. I wonder who Eden's using?"

"I don't know." Peter was trying to determine the many ways in which this new information would impact the case. He nodded at the sheet in Jones' hand. "Neal didn't say, but he did directly name Terrence Eden."

"That removes any doubt about this being Agent Littleton's case," Jones remarked, putting the page down on the table. "And more importantly, it gives validity to the theory that Neal didn't do this on his own volition."

The message Neal had covertly sent to authorities as the crime was being committed not only corroborated what they already knew but it also made it clear that Neal was working _against_ Terrence Eden and not for him. That was an important thing to establish before any past connection between Eden and Neal turned up. If Neal had worked for Eden in Chicago, one could make the arguement that he was doing so again. But Neal had risked his safety to get information to investigators about who was responsible for the crime, what the real target was and how he had been forced to participate. This made Neal the victim of a crime; not someone who had willfully escaped Federal Custody in order to commit one.

"We're going to have to rethink our strategy," Peter said. "We can't just go in and grab Neal then sort things out from there." Not that it was ever a simple undertaking, but at least it was a straightforward action plan that, if executed carefully, removed Neal from eminent danger. Now, removing Neal from danger directly put someone else into it.

"We'll need to let the meeting go through without alerting Eden we're on to him," Jones put forth, "then follow Neal; hopefully back to Eden _and_ his hostage."

As much as Peter hated the idea of sending Neal back to the man who had kidnapped him, he knew Jones was right. "Cyber Crimes can set a trap and trace on the money, and we can slip a tracking device to Neal at the meeting just in case we can't directly follow him."

Jones nodded, "Cyber Crimes follows the money, and we follow _Neal_."

It was a solid plan, but they still needed the meeting details. Peter looked at the clock; it was almost time for the update from Mozzie. He glanced at the computer screen where the footage was paused as Neal was handed his Welcome Packet.

"No one got his message," Peter remarked quietly, his eyes on Neal's tense expression. "Danford Security, the NYPD _and_ the Marshals all watched that footage yesterday afternoon, and _no one got_ it." The information Neal had tried to pass on would have changed the course of the investigation from the beginning.

"They just saw a nervous criminal in the commission of a crime. They weren't _looking_ for anything else," Jones said. "You've said from the start that you would get more out of the footage than anyone else."

"Because you know Neal." Elizabeth turned the paper on the table around, then placed her finger beneath the last word Peter had written, the last word Neal had signed. "And that's what he was counting. He didn't leave the message for them, Peter, he left it for you."

She was of course, correct. The last two words made it clear who Neal expected to get his message and also that time was of the essence.

 _Hurry Peter._


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-one**

"Touching." Eden's tone matched his expression as he took the phone from Neal and placed it back in his pocket. "I thought Neal Caffrey wasn't the sentimental type."

Neal didn't regret his words to Mozzie, but he did regret how close he'd come to breaking down as he'd said them. That was unusual; normally he was better able to keep his emotions in check, but as the call had ended, he'd suddenly felt close to tears. He guessed it was a combination of factors, his physical and mentally depleted state, as well as the information Mozzie had passed him about the arrangements for the upcoming meeting. He'd managed to get a grip, swallowing hard, but hadn't trusted his voice to say anything further. He'd simply ended the call, then looked up to see the mocking face of Terrence Eden.

"He isn't," Neal regrouped quickly, "But Mr. Haversham has been a good friend; to both of us. Because of him, you're getting over a million more for your diamonds than you'd gotten otherwise. When can I see the boy?"

"Soon enough," Eden told him, making his exit from the small room that had become Neal's cell. "I have a few things to wrap up and some travel arrangements to make. But I'll have someone take you to see him a little closer to meeting time. And they'll also be there to make sure you hold up your end of the bargain."

He left, and Neal heard the padlock being put back into place. The bargain he was referring to was the one he had struck with Eden only moments before he'd made the call to Mozzie. He'd lain awake on the cold floor most of the night, hoping to hear a commotion outside that indicated that Peter had followed the clues he'd left and had tracked them down. But it didn't happen. Even though his ordeal had been going on for days, he had to remind himself that Peter had only been on the case a few hours and Eden was good at covering his tracks. Otherwise, he'd have been locked up long before now. Of course, he'd never been on Peter Burke's radar. Once that happened, it was just a matter of time. He always got his man. Neal knew that from personal experience.

But he knew it might take more time than he'd hoped and time wasn't something he had a lot of. Or more to the point, something the _kid_ had a lot of. His chances of living, though his quality of life might be less than appealing until Peter tracked them down, was much better than the kids. He only had hours before Eden would be leaving the city and deciding whether to kill him or let him go. Neal knew Eden well enough to know he never let anyone go.

By the time morning came, he had come up with a plan. He would convince Eden to let the boy deliver the diamonds to the seller. That way, if Peter hadn't found them before then, the kid could walk into the meeting instead of him. It might not be who Peter expected to see, but if he'd gotten the message, he would realize who it was and play along. At the end of the day, the kid would be away from Eden and safe, and Peter could use the fund transfer to track down Eden. All he had to do was bide his time until Peter could find him.

But that plan now had some drawbacks. According to Mozzie, it was the Marshals and not White Collar that would be waiting for him at the meeting, and when he'd said that sudden moves would not be his friend, it was his way of saying don't do anything to make them _shoot_ you. That didn't sound like an operation to rescue a kidnap victim; it was more like an operation to apprehend an escaped felon suspected of stealing millions of dollars worth of diamonds. There was only one reason Peter would step aside and let the Marshal Service take him; he must believe Neal was guilty of the crime and had decided to wash his hands of his CI altogether.

Even though it caught him off guard, Neal knew he really shouldn't be surprised. Peter had put up with more, covered _up_ for more, than Neal had ever expected him to. He'd known Peter would be angry when he got the news about the robbery and would take the perceived betrayal personally, but he'd expected that to translate into a determination to be the one to catch him and bring him in. Neal never considered his response would be to step aside and let someone else take over.

But if that were what he'd done then he'd never talked to witnesses or seen the footage from the lobby of the Danford Building. He didn't know Neal had been forced to steal the diamonds. He didn't know about Terrence Eden, Bradford & Donnelly or that Eden had a hostage. He wasn't investigating the case, looking for clues or trying to anticipate Neal's next move. Neal hadn't realized how much he had been counting on Peter finding him until learned he wasn't even looking.

Strangely enough, it wasn't that he'd put his faith in Peter and Peter wasn't coming that had shaken him; it was that Peter had lost faith in him. As many times as he'd deserved it, expected it even, it hadn't happened. In spite of his past and the stupid things he sometimes did, Peter had never seen him as a lost cause. He'd yell, threaten and berate, but he'd never walk away. Until now.

Neal felt an ache in his chest and a lump in his throat. He'd felt it when he talked to Mozzie but this time, he was unable to swallow it. He crossed the small space and sat down on the sleeping back, his back against the wall. Gingerly, he pulled his knees up to him and rested his head on his arm. His face hidden, the hot tears he'd fought back earlier now began to spill from his eyes and he was unable to stifle them.

He had lost everything that mattered; every _one_ that mattered. Peter, Elizabeth, June. Even Mozzie if Eden took him back to Chicago. He'd never want Mozzie anywhere near that man. He had made New York his home, and it had even begun to feel like one. He loved the view from his terrace and his morning jog through Riverside Park. Working at the White Collar with Peter, even with the paperwork, mortgage fraud cases and being stuck in the van with Jones. He had a life here, a real one, with people he cared about and who cared about him. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he belonged somewhere. But now, all that was over. He had nothing. Terrence Eden had taken it all away.

His shoulders shook as wave after wave of despair swept over him. He buried his face tightly in the crook of his arm, trying to muffle the sounds of his distress. Hopefully, Eden had moved away from the door; he couldn't bear the humiliation of the man seeing him crying like a heartbroken kid. But that was exactly how he felt. Heartbroken.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Mozzie arrived at the Burke house ten minutes ahead of schedule. Usually one for punctuality, in normal times he'd have waited until the precise time he'd promised to knock on the door. But these weren't normal times. He stepped up and rapped insistently on the door. He had no doubt that those inside were eagerly anticipating his arrival and would overlook his departure from his usual decorum.

He was greeted by Elizabeth, by far his favorite of the Suit family. "Mrs. Suit," he greeted politely.

"Mozzie," she returned. Her invitation to enter consisted of a nod in the direction of the Burke dining room. Mozzie stepped past her and saw that the Suit and the _Junior_ Suit were already assembled at the dining room table. Both had computers set up. Mozzie looked suspiciously about the room, but Peter had been true to his word; there were no Federal Marshals lurking about.

"Did he call?" Peter asked impatiently, rising from his seat. "Do you have the meeting arrangements?" He hadn't even waited for Mozzie to get out of his coat.

"Of course, he called," Mozzie replied, pulling off the light jacket he was wearing as well as his cap. "And yes, I have the meeting arrangements." Before he handed Elizabeth his jacket, he extracted a folder piece of paper from the pocket. She took both his coat and hat and hung them on the hall tree by the front door.

"But I have to say," he continued, eyeing Jones distrustfully as he moved across the room, "speaking with him did nothing to ease my earlier concerns about this plan of yours."

"Well, there's been some significant developments since we talked last night and earlier plans have changed," Peter informed him. "We are in the process of making new ones. So, what did he say? How much time do we have?"

Mozzie was about to ask the nature of the developments, whether they benefited or worsened things for his friend when he saw the image on the computer open on the table. It was Neal, and he didn't look good.

"What happened to his _face_?" He didn't really need to ask; he'd seen the results of a beatdown before. He knew Neal was in trouble, but a visual confirmation was more than slightly distressing. Especially in light of Neal's parting words to him only minutes ago.

"He's okay, Mozzie," Peter assured him, "just a little banged up but otherwise fine. What are the arrangments? When and where is the meeting?"

Mozzie pulled his eyes from the computer with difficulty, then unfolded the paper in his hand.

He told Peter everything about the conversation, describing the information that was given and received. He gave the time and location and disconcerting details of how the meeting was apt to go. "Both of those parks are huge, Suit," he explained, "with dozens of places, the meeting could be held. It's going to be impossible to secure the location. When the Marshals make their move to arrest Neal-" He shook his head. "Even if Neal doesn't offer any resistance, Eden might. Neal knows too much to just let him go."

"No one is going to arrest Neal, Mozzie; we're going through with the meeting, transferring the money, and slipping him a tracking device. Then we will follow him back to Eden."

Mozzie looked from one suit to the other. "And the Marshals are going along with that?" he asked. It seemed unlikely to him that, once having Neal in their sights, the Federal Marshals charged with capturing such an elusive man would just let him walk away. They had to be somewhat wary of tracking devices, after all.

"It's not up to the Marshals," Peter said, "Everything's changed. I told you, there have been major developments. This case is getting kicked back to the Bureau and we also have some compelling evidence to support our theory that Neal is being coerced. We even know how; Eden has taken someone besides Neal, and that is who Neal is trying to protect."

"Who?" Mozzie's shouldn't have been surprised; Neal had, after all, compared Eden to Ryan Wilkes. "And how do you know?"

"Neal told us, and that's not all he said."

"When did _you_ talk to Neal?" Mozzie asked, his surprise now turning to disbelief.

Peter motioned to the computer screen where Neal's bruised face was still painfully clear. "I didn't," he admitted, "but _he_ talked to _me._ How are you at sign language? Fingerspelling to be precise."

"Excellent, of course," Mozzie replied. "One never knows when non-verbal communication may be required. Why?"

"Pull up a chair and I'll show you."

Mozzie did as was bidden and Elizabeth brought him a cup of tea. He watched the video clip of Neal and of course, immediately understood what the Suit had been eluding to.

"He sent a message," Peter said as the clip continued to play, "before he disabled the cameras." He pushed a sheet of paper in front of Mozzie.

Mozzie read the words that were written there. "Bradford & _Donnelly_?" He knew that company by its reputation. "So Eden is some kind of _cyber criminal_?"

"Apparently so," Peter said. "Cyber Crimes in Chicago have been investigating him for over six months. And get this, Eden's _partner_ is a former broker from Bradford  & Donnelly."

"A disgruntled employee, no doubt," Mozzie offered.

"Cyber Crimes had gotten intel that Eden and McAllister were planning something big," Peter continued, "and now we know what it was. That's why this case is getting yanked from the NYPD _and_ the Marshals; it's part of an ongoing Bureau investigation."

"Does that mean there will be a friendly face at that meeting today? Someone Neal trusts?" Mozzie knew it couldn't be Peter, having been suspended and all, but he was sure the sight of Clinton Jones, or the lovely Diana Berrigan would improve Neal's mindset considerably.

Peter glanced at Jones before answering. "That still has to be determined," he said, "but I guarantee whoever is at that meeting is going to be _pro-Neal._ Eden is the target and Neal is their best chance of getting him.

"I need to get down to the office for that briefing," Jones said, looking at his watch, "and boss, I think you probably should come too."

"I'm not your boss on this case," Peter reminded him. "and Agent Hughes told me not to show my face at the office; I'm not about to ignore another order."

"But that was before all this turned up," he waved at the computers on the table. "The fact is that you were right from the start; Neal _wasn't_ trying to escape custody, he was kidnapped."

"Nevertheless, I still broke protocol and ignored Hughes order to stand down, and am suspended until further notice."

"Okay," A smile crossed the Agent's face, "how about coming along to the briefing as my CI?"

Mozzie almost choked on his tea. Agent Peter Burke relegated to the role of the Junior Suit's CI; Neal would _so_ enjoy this turnabout. He sure hoped he'd get to tell him about it later. Perhaps over a chilled bottle of Merlot.

"Your _what_?" Peter seemed both surprised and horrified at the suggestion.

"You know," Jones explained with an air of patience, "a person who provides the insight or proprietary information necessary for the success execution-"

"I _know_ what a CI is," Peter snapped, "I've had a few myself. I am not a CI; I'm am a Federal Agent and a suspended one at that, _and_ " he stressed, "Hughes told me not to come back to the office until he called me."

"I'm just trying to save him a phone call," Jones defended, standing up and shutting down his computer. "Once I tell him about the message on the security footage he's going to ask why no one caught it before now. The Marshal Service and the NYPD are going to trip all over themselves making excuses, and Hughes is going announce that he's reinstating you and that the Bureau is now taking the lead on this case, courtesy of the Chicago Cyber Crimes Unit. Do you really want to miss _that_?"

Mozzie could see that the thought of being restored to duty in front of those who had demanded he be benched in the first place was very enticing to Peter Burke. He was surprised it took as long as it did for him to make up his mind.

"No, I don't," he stated firmly. He held out his hand to Mozzie expectantly. "I'll need that phone, Moz,"

Knowing this was coming and having already disabled his customized security measures, Mozzie didn't mind handing it over. Peter pocketed the phone, then turned to Elizabeth. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand, silencing him.

"Go, Peter," she ordered with authority, "go get your badge back and then _go get Neal._ "

Mozzie hoped it would be that simple and that what the Junior Suit had projected actually took place. If it did, he had little doubt that Neal would be seeing a friendly face at the meeting. Knowing that was the case hopefully would remove the uneasy feeling he'd had ever since he's spoken to Neal.

"Yes, _ma'am,_ " Peter responded, giving Elizabeth a quick kiss on the cheek before following Jones to the door. Once there, he turned back. "Can you stick around, Mozzie, just in case we need you?"

"Certainly, Suit," Mozzie replied, more pleased by the request than he cared to admit. Having worked with Burke for less than eighteen hours, he could see how Neal had been drawn into Burke's web. In spite of his bullying and moralizing, Burke had a way of making you feel included; like you were a part of a something. When Burke had asked him to stay, he'd posed the question as if asking a friend for a favor. Even knowing it wasn't true, it had still brought an odd feeling of camaraderie, kinship even. He could see why Neal, having experienced that, would have a difficult time leaving it behind.

"Call when you have news," Elizabeth called after her husband, and with a promise that he would, he and Jones were off to the White Collar offices.

Elizabeth returned to the kitchen and emerged a moment later with a cup of tea. Although as lovely as ever, Mozzie could see she was tired as she crossed the room then sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. He'd left the Burke house near midnight, and Jones had yet to arrive. He wondered how long the work session had lasted before exhaustion made them call it a night. Mozzie, with cup in hand, took a seat on the sofa.

"Mozzie," she began tentatively, "what do you know about Neal's life before he came to New York?"

He wasn't surprised by the question. Terrence Eden was someone from Neal's past, and his appearance was bound to raise questions. From what he'd heard about Eden and what he knew about Neal, the two seemed less than compatible, but perhaps that hadn't always been the case. He had questions of his own. He just hoped he'd get the chance to ask Neal about them.

"Very little, actually," he admitted truthfully. "Neal isn't much to share personal information about the here and now much less about the past." It was true. Neal was very present oriented. Mozzie had gotten the impression that Neal's past, like his own, was best left where it was; in the past.

"Peter said you met him soon after he came here," she continued, not willing to let Mozzie off the hook so easily, "and he never said _anything_ about Chicago or what he did there?"

 _What he did_ _there?_ That set off warning bells; she was fishing for information. He knew from Burke that the night's casework had produced several breaks in the case, all revolving around Terrence Eden. Had Neal somehow been implicated in the man's past crimes? Had the Suit put his wife up to squeezing him for information over a cup of Earl Gray?

"The Earl Grey blend of tea is believed to be named after Charles Grey, the second Earl Grey," Mozzie said after a brief silence. "He was the British Prime Minister during the 1830's."

Elizabeth smiled at the sudden departure into tea trivia. "I'm not trying to get you to betray a trust, Mozzie," she assured him, "I'd never do that. It's just-" A pained looked crossed her face.

"Just what?"

"This man who has Neal," she began almost hesitantly, "Peter said that in Chicago he used others to commit crimes for him. Mostly kids that were in trouble, living on the streets or in bad situations. They needed help but instead of _helping_ them, he turned them into _criminals_."

That was news about Eden that Burke had not shared. "Terrence Eden is a _Fagin_ then."

He didn't bother to hide his contempt. In a system that placed children with the best of only bad options, he'd fallen prey to such a man himself. There were still times he wondered how different his life would have been had he been placed with a Rose Maylie instead of a Fagin. He thought back to when he'd first met Neal; he hadn't looked old enough to have a provisional driver license, much less be old enough to vote. But even by then he was confident, street smart and his skills finely honed. Mozzie had liked him immediately; it was like they were kindred spirits. And now he knew why.

"Yes, or at least he used to be," Elizabeth was saying, "and Peter thinks _that's_ how he knows Neal, Mozzie, he thinks _Neal_ was one of those kids."

Given the information about Eden, in tandem with how young Neal would have been when he lived in Chicago, it was more than a reasonable conclusion.

"I suppose he's cast Neal as Jack Dawkins in this modern-day adaptation of the classic?" The Dickens character of Dawkins was Fagin's most talented young pickpocket. Eventually nabbed, he was shipped off to an Australian Penal colony. Neal had only been shipped as far as Sing Sing, but the parallel still applied.

"The Artful Dodger?" He had to give her credit; Elizabeth knew her Dickens. "As fitting as the nickname may be, judging from Peter's restless night, I think he sees Neal more as Oliver."

Try as he might, he just couldn't see Neal Caffrey raising a bowl and saying, _Please, sir, I want some more._

Still, if Neal had to be cast as a character in the classic, Oliver was the one to be. He had eventually been liberated from his hopeless circumstances. At novel's end, he had a home, a family and a place in the world. The thing every cast off child of the world coveted.

Unfortunately, that story was a work of fiction and Mozzie had learned that in real life, there were seldom happy endings.


	22. Chapter 22

_Thanks to all who are following this story and taking the time to post a review. It provides both motivation and inspirations, two gifts I am always grateful to receive._

 _I own nothing except the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter Twenty-two**

Neal was startled awake by the sound of the padlock being removed from the latch and clamored to his feet as quickly as he could. His eyes felt raw and swollen and he wished he had time to grab the half empty bottle of water on the floor and splash over his face but he didn't. Being caught sobbing would have been humiliating but being caught with red-rimmed eyes and a tear streaked face was little better. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands, then ran his fingers through his less than pristine hair as the door opened. He was relieved to see that it was Ken, the Lesser of the Evils, who entered.

A look of sympathy, or maybe just plain pity, passed across Ken's face so quickly that Neal wasn't sure he'd seen it at all.

"I'm supposed to take you to see the boy." His tone conveyed neither sympathy nor pity; in fact, it held no emotion at all. What had he said to Max that first night? _We signed up for a job, and that means doing what we are told._ That was what he was, a man following orders.

Neal, fearing it was already time for the meeting, glanced at his watch and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was only eleven-thirty. He'd only lost two hours, but he still couldn't believe that in the face of everything he'd fallen asleep. But he supposed he shouldn't be surprised; he was exhausted. The past two days had been difficult. He'd ate little and slept less and whatever reserve of strength he had had been drained by his unfortunate, and unexpected, emotional meltdown. He'd heard that you were supposed to feel better after a good cry and he supposed that he did. His heart no longer ached; there was instead a sort of numbness and with it came a sense of clarity.

It had been a good ride, working with Peter and the White Collar team, and his place at June's certainly had beat a prison cell. But when he'd suggested the arrangement to Agent Burke it had just been a means to an end; he'd never expected it to be a long-term commitment. It hadn't ended the way he'd anticipated, or on his terms, but it had ended. He had been on his own most of his life and he'd survived without Peter Burke. Terrence Eden was a monster but he was a greedy one; and as long as he saw Neal as a potential source of income, he'd keep him around. Then it would just be a matter of watching, waiting and planning; he'd escaped him once and he would do so again. And with Agent Burke of the FBI no longer chasing him, he could go anywhere he wanted and start over.

The term _start over_ stirred the slightest of distress but Neal moved quickly on. Since it was the Lessor of the Evils, Neal made his standard request, "Can I visit the restroom first?" and Ken gave his standard answer, "Just make it fast."

He stepped up to the sink to wash his hands and hesitantly raised his eyes to the mirror. His eye was now black and the bruise on his jaw more pronounced. Bruises he hadn't noticed before were making their appearances on his otherwise pale face. Both eyes were bloodshot, and even his unblackened eye had a dark circle beneath it. It probably _had_ been pity that had fleetingly moved across his captor's face.

He washed his hands, then splashed cold water on his face. When he'd dried his hands and blotted the excess water off his face, He was ready to go.

He followed Ken down the wide hallway. "How long have you known Eden?" It was really the first chance Neal had had had to speak with the man without an audience.

Ken didn't slow his stride. "I _don't_ know him," he answered curtly, "and I don't _want_ to. This is just a job, a one-time thing."

"You sure about that?" Neal questioned. "I know from experience that once he has his claws into you, he's reluctant to let you go." His warning got no response from the man. Ken continued to move down the hallway, turning down a smaller one Neal hadn't previously traversed.

"How much are you getting for this one _-time thing?"_ Neal ventured, hoping to strike more than one deal before lunch. "Maybe I could make a counter offer." He did have a diamond tucked away.

Again, Ken didn't respond. They reached their destination, stopping at a door with no windows. Just like his own door, this one was padlocked from the outside.

"Not interested," Ken said, eyeing him coolly. "I don't _change_ sides mid-game. I keep my word and my commitments." Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked the padlock, removed it and unlatched the door. The look he sent was one of warning. "I suggest you do the same."

He reached down to turn the knob, but Neal put out his hand and stopped him.

"Wait," Neal said quickly. "What's the kid's _name_?" he kept his voice low. "If I kidnapped him I would _know_ his _name._ "

That was his part of the bargain; to hang all of Eden's crimes in New York around his own neck. Already wanted for robbery, now he had to convince this kid that he was guilty of kidnapping as well.

"Andrew," Ken informed him. "His name is Andrew Carver. He's sixteen years old, and his mother is a programmer at-"

"SecureAlert," Neal finished. "I remember." SecureAlert was the company that programmed monitored his tracking device.

"You'd better be as good as you claim to be," Ken said, looking over Neal's battered face doubtfully. "Because you don't look anywhere near intimidating enough to be a kidnapper."

"I don't have to be intimidating," Neal's lip still pulled painfully, so he tempered his grin. "I just have to be in charge of those who are."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Jones had made a call in transit to let Agent Hughes know Peter would be attending the briefing. The last thing Peter wanted was a reaming out in front of the Marshals or NYPD. He had been there, done that and didn't want a repeat of the humiliation. Peter would be there as the foremost expert on Neal Caffrey, Jones had explained, and in that capacity, had uncovered previously undisclosed information that needed to be shared.

Hughes must have asked about the nature of the information because Jones answer was, "It's good, sir; it puts this whole thing in an entirely new light."

They arrived at ten-fifteen; the office, of course, was empty on a Sunday morning. There was no sign of Agent Singleton or Detective Johnson but when he and Jones reached Hughes' office, they found he was not alone. Agent Littleton's flight wasn't scheduled to land until twelve-fifteen so in his stead was the head of the New York Cyber Crimes Unit.

Introductions were made and Agent Abernathy quickly caught them up to speed. "As I was telling Agent Hughes," he began, "Agent Littleton will be heading this up when he gets here but since Caffrey is one of yours, he wants White Collar involved. Agent Hughes said you had some additional information on the case." He looked from Jones to Peter. "I'd like a preview if you don't mind."

"After getting the run around from the NYPD," Jones said, "finally this morning I was able to get access to the security footage from the robbery." He looked at Peter. "Want to tell him what you found?"

Peter produced the sheet of paper on which he'd jotted down Neal's message and handed it to Agent Abernathy. "Caffrey send me a message."

"What?" Agent Hughes asked. "How?"

Abernathy's brows raised as he scanned the paper. "Where did you get this?"

"Caffrey was signing," Peter explained. "Fingerspelling while he was in line in the lobby." He met Agent Hughes' eyes. "He's wasn't there because he wanted to be; he didn't have a choice." He nodded at the sheet in Abernathy's hand, "He was trying to get information to us to put us on the right trail."

Abernathy handed the sheet to Agent Hughes. "And no one saw this before this _morning_?"

"Plenty of people saw the footage," Jones said, "but no one saw the message until Agent Burke finally got a look at the video."

"Damn fools should have let him see it yesterday," Hughes growled, looking at the message Neal had sent. "This complicates things."

"We can't just grab Caffrey at the meeting," Abernathy admitted, "Not if Eden is holding someone else as leverage."

"We have an idea about that," Jones said, glancing at Peter. "You said that Agent Littleton wants us involved, how about letting us handle the meeting?"

"We'll need to follow Caffrey back to Eden," Abernathy went on to explain, "and hopefully to the other hostage as well. We need to make sure he's on board."

"This message _tells_ us he's on board," Agent Hughes stated, "and has been all along. But you can't directly communicate with him, so you're going to need someone who knows how to communicate _indirectly_." He looked at Peter. "And that is Agent Burke."

"There is just one problem with that, sir," Peter reminded him, doing his best not to smile. "I'm _suspended,_ remember?"

Hughes opened his desk drawer and retrieved the badge he'd taken the evening before. "Not anymore," he said, handing it over. "Restored to full duty." He looked at Agent Abernathy. "What do you say?"

Abernathy nodded slowly. "I'll talk to Agent Littleton," he said, "But I don't think he'll have a problem with that. Cyber Crimes can get the funds into an account and then track the transaction when it takes place. White Collor can set up the meeting, recover the diamonds and then track Caffrey."

"Did I _miss_ something?" A displeased Agent Singleton asked from the doorway. They hadn't heard the men's approach but Agent Singleton and Detective Johnson had arrived.

"You've missed quite a lot, actually." Agent Hughes replied shortly. "You've met Agent Jones and Agent Burke," he said, "And this is Agent Abernathy, Cyber Crimes Unit."

Abernathy stepped forward and extended his hand. "Gentlemen," he began, shaking each man's hand in turn, "I'm here on behalf of Agent Littleton of the Chicago Cyber Crimes Unit. He's due to arrive just after noon. During the course of their investigation, these Agents," he nodded at Jones and Peter, "discovered a connection between this case and an ongoing investigation Agent Littleton's been working in Chicago. Because of that, Cyber Crimes will now be taking over this investigation."

"Since when is a diamond heist a cyber crime?" Detective Johnson protested. "Sounds to me like the FBI is trying to steamroll our investigation."

"As I said," Agent Hughes replied, "You've _missed_ a lot; there have been developments that put this case back into Federal Jurisdiction." Hughes moved towards the door. "But as a _courtesy_ , if you step into the conference room, we will bring you up to speed."

Peter had to admit that he enjoyed the briefing. There wasn't much opportunity for either Singleton or Johnson to speak as they were given the basics, and only the basics, of the case. Their looks of disbelief as they were informed of the true nature of the crime was satisfying to see. There was the slightest attempt to push blame on White Collar for not sharing the tip they'd gotten from their CI that made the Terrence Eden connection but once Jones pulled up the footage from the lobby of the Danford building, there wasn't much they could say. They had the information in their hands the whole time they just hadn't seen it. In spite of Johnson's claim to the contrary, he _had_ needed Peter's help to do his job and if he hadn't kicked him off the crime scene, vital information would have been had hours earlier. Hughes made that point so Peter didn't have to. He held his tongue but doubted he concealed the somewhat gloating look he sent to Agent Johnson.

By the end of the meeting, both Agent Singleton and Detective Johnson had accepted their greatly diminished roles. Agent Singleton reluctantly agreed that new information indicated that Caffrey may be the victim of a crime rather than an escaped prisoner; Detective Johnson offered the support of the NYPD by pulling in dozens of plainclothes officers to help cover the meeting.

The briefing over, the men rose from their chairs to get back to their assorted duties. Some lists had grown longer and others considerably shorter.

"Who would ever think of looking for _hand signals_?" Detective Johnson said quietly, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Agent _Burke_ would," Agent Hughes answered. "After all, he's the _foremost expert_ on Neal Caffrey."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Ken opened the door to the kid's makeshift cell and moved aside to let Neal enter. Peering through, Neal could see that boy was no longer tied to a chair. He was sitting with his back against the wall, hugging his knees, much as Neal himself had been doing earlier. His face was pale and fearful, eyes expectantly trained on the entryway. Neal had been on the other side the door and knew the apprehension that occurred between the sound of the lock on the outside being removed and the door actually opening. In spite of his words to his mother to the contrary, the boy was smart enough to realize there was a good chance he was never going to leave that room alive. Each time the door opened, he had to wonder if it was someone coming to finish him off.

At least, Neal thought, he could relieve that fear, and if things went well, the kid would be home by nightfall. His own future was a bit more ambiguous. As long as Eden didn't outright kill him, and he didn't think he would if he gave him no reason, he'd figure out something in time. If he had that time depended on whether or not Eden blamed him for what was likely to occur at the meeting. Neal planned to play ignorant and be as surprised by the ambush as Eden was. If Eden didn't buy his act, the future wouldn't be anything to worry about. Right now, he needed to focus and concentrate on the task at hand. He took a steadying breath before stepping into the room. He had better project enough confidence to outweigh his appearance.

"Andrew," he began, his voice strong yet conversational. "You and I haven't been formally introduced. My name is Neal Caffrey, and I am the reason you are here."

The kid didn't respond to Neal's announcement but, pulling his knees closer, watched him with wary eyes. He was sitting on a sleeping bag that could have been a twin to Neal's, and there were several empty bottles of water, and a couple of unopened ones, on the floor near him. At least his basic needs had been seen to, and Neal had the feeling that was because of the man who was standing behind him.

"I need you to do something for me," Neal said, "and then you will be free to go."

The kid looked doubtful. "You need _me_ to do something?" he asked, "I thought you needed my mom to."

"Your mom did her part," Neal told him, "and now I need for you to do yours."

The boy looked concerned, his gaze shifting from Neal to Ken and back again. "What do I have to do?"

"You will be a delivery boy; that's all," Neal explained. "And I will tell you everything you have to do, okay?"

Andrew's face conveyed that he put little trust in Neal's words. With everything he'd been through, Neal didn't blame him. But still, he listened intently as Neal explained what he wanted him to do. "Think you can do that?" Neal asked when he was finished.

The kid nodded his head slowly. "I can do it," he promised. "I just want to go _home._ "

"I know you do," Neal said. "And I'm sorry that I've put you and your mom through all this, but it's almost over." He glanced around the room. Water bottles but no sign of nourishment. "Have you had anything to eat?"

The boy shook his head.

"Then I apologize for the oversight," Neal let a tone of disapproval slip into his voice and turned to face Ken. "I thought I made it clear that he should be well cared for? Was that too complicated or do you have a problem following orders?"

There was a flash in Ken's eyes, but his tone was one of respect. "I was just-"

Neal held up his hand. "I don't want excuses," he interrupted. "Just see to it that he gets something to eat." If he was supposed to have ordered the kidnapping, he had the authority to order lunch, and Ken knew it.

"I'll take care of it immediately," Ken responded, meeting Neal's challenging gaze with amusement. Then to Andrew, "What would you like?"

The kid looked from Ken back to Neal, a look of doubt still playing across his young features. "Are you _really_ going to let me go?"

"Yes," Neal stated firmly. "Once you deliver the diamonds to the buyer, you're free to go. So what's it going to be, a burger, pizza?"

His hesitation was slight. "Pizza," he answered, "pizza's good.'

"Pizza it is then," Neal replied raising his eyebrows at Ken. "Right?"

"Of course, sir." He had such an exaggerated tone of servitude Neal almost expected him to bow. He looked at Andrew. "Anything else?"

"A Pepsi would be nice, too," the boy added hesitantly.

"Pizza and Pepsi," Ken repeated, then to Neal, "If we're done here, _sir,_ I will see to the boy's lunch."

"We're done," Neal said, then to Andrew, "I will see you in a couple hours; Enjoy your lunch."

The boy nodded, still hesitant but with gratitude. With everything Neal had felt in the past few hours, the hope in the boy's face was a welcome change of pace. This boy had a home, a family, and if things went according to plan, a future. No matter what lay ahead for him, saving this boy would make it worthwhile. It would be one young life that Eden wouldn't take away.

Neal exited the room feeling encouraged. As he stepped into the hallway, followed by Ken who closed the door behind them, he was met by Terrence Eden and Max. He knew by their faces that something was wrong even before Eden's fist slammed into his face, causing him to stumble backward into Ken. Head ringing, Neal wasn't sure he'd have kept his feet had the man behind him not steadied him.

"I warned you before," Eden leaned close, his voice low. "Don't _ever_ think you are smarter than I am because you aren't and I _always_ know more than you think I do."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Neal's hand instinctively went to his jaw and before he could ask for an explanation, the next blow doubled him over and took his breath. There were several things that could have prompted the sudden violence and Neal knew his best chance was to feign ignorance until he determined exactly which one Eden had found out about.

Eden's jaws were clenched, his eyes hard but Max's face was red with rage. He stepped forward, grabbed Neal's arm roughly and forced him upright to face his attacker. Neal could tell by the grip on his other arm that Ken had also joined in the fun. Neal guessed that he too was in the dark, but as a man who followed directions he had picked up on orders of the non-verbal kind. While the two men held Neal's shoulders firmly, Eden repeated his previous actions, the next blows to the mid-section breaking several of Neal's already stressed ribs.

"I say we just finish him off now," Max growled at Neal's ear, "him _and_ the kid. And clear out before anyone tracks us here."

His words cut through the ringing in Neal's head. His chin resting on his chest, he shook his head. "No need to kill him," he sputtered weakly, finding it a challenge to get air into his lungs to give his words force. "He doesn't _know_ anything...he thinks I took him...he isn't-"

Eden jerked Neal's chin up, stopping his sentence before it was complete. "I told you what would happen if you tried anything," his voice was frighteningly calm. "And, unlike you, I am a man of my word."

Neal thought about denying any wrongdoing but only for a second; it was pointless, and he knew it. He had counted on Peter being doggedly on the case and other than pocketing the diamond, every act of duplicity had been an effort to communicate with him. Now he realized his very actions to try to save the boy's life may, in fact, cost it. "Please," he said, hearing a slight whistling sound as he tried to take a breath, "I can make it up to you," he panted, "there is no reason to hurt the boy."

Another blow snapped Neal's head back, adding a bleeding nose to the blood already flowing from his mouth. His legs suddenly weak, he would have crumbled to the floor had the men not had a firm grip. Although the blow was response enough, Eden verbalized his answer just the same. "This _was_ your chance, Danny, to make it up to me. Most snitches don't get that opportunity, but I was willing to make an exception in your case."

"We don't have _time_ for this," Max urged impatiently, clearly shaken up by whatever they had discovered. "If you want to kill him, kill him. Let's finish up our business and get _out_ of here."

"Don't forget your place," Eden's reply was quick, his tone icy. "I do _not_ take orders from _you."_

"I know that," Max adjusted his attitude with equal swiftness, "but we need to put miles between New York and us as soon as possible. They have your _name_."

That answered that, Neal thought; someone had seen his message. He couldn't imagine anyone but Peter looking closely enough to find it but apparently someone had.

"Toss him in with the kid," Eden said after a moment's reflection. "There're plenty of places between here and Chicago where I can take my time with him." He again lifted Neal's chin which had found its way back to rest on his chest. "I've waited a long time, _Danny,_ " Eden said, softly "and I plan to enjoy. Every. Minute." He released his grip and Neal struggled to find his legs and keep his head upright. He wasn't sure if the increasing tightness in his chest was due to injury or the way Eden kept repeating the name, Danny.

"You know Caffrey's right," Ken finally spoke up. "The kid thinks he was in charge of the whole thing. If you put him in there, that's going to change quickly. He'll _know._ "

"What he knows is irrelevant," Eden stated flatly, "because he's not going to be around to tell anyone about it. Plus," Eden continued, "it will give Danny a chance to explain to him why he's going to have to die."

"But there's no _reason_ to kill him," Neal argued desperately, "there's no benefit to you in any way; so why _do_ it?"

"Because killing him will hurt you, Danny, and right now that is more than enough reason. I'll let you watch," his smile was cruel. "Then I'll decide what to do with you."

With a word to the men to join him in the break room, Eden left them.

The padlock hadn't been refastened, so the door was easily opened. Weak-kneed and moving backward, Neal was unable to keep pace, so the men dragged him back into the room.

"What the hell _happened_?" Ken asked Max as they dropped Neal unceremoniously to the floor. Andrew, having heard the commotion outside the door, was now on his feet. His expression one of both alarm and confusion as he watched the events unfold.

"Caffrey here," Max kicked Neal who, with a grunt, rolled to his side, "sent some kind of secret message to his handler at the FBI. The Feds know about Bradford & Donnelly; the accounts were frozen a half hour ago. They know about Eden, too, and this whole meeting is a setup."

"How? When?" Ken's tone was one of disbelief. "He's not been anywhere to _send_ any message."

"I don't know the details," Max said irritably. "I just got a call from one of my part-timers that there was a big break in the case this morning. The Feds have taken over; Cyber Crimes and White Collar. And they aren't calling Caffrey a suspect; they're calling him a _witness._ " Again Max kicked Neal viciously. "There can be _no_ _witnesses._ "

"Look," Although Ken's voice dropped, Neal could still hear him. "I've done a lot of things, but I'm not a _murderer._ "

Where Max was urging Eden to kill them and get it over with, Ken wanted no part of it. He was, after all, the _Lessor_ of the Evils.

"Don't worry about it," Max replied, moving towards the door. "That's not something he'll delegate; he'll want to do it himself."

Ken's response, if he had one, was cut off as the heavy door closed, and Neal heard the padlock being put back into place. Neal lay there, reeling from both the beating and the information. Max said there had been a big break this _morning_ , and the Feds had _taken over_ , implying that they hadn't previously been in charge. They were calling him a witness instead of a suspect and there was only one way that could happen. Peter had gotten his message and more importantly, _believed_ him.

Neal lay there, head pounding, face bleeding and each breath causing great pain, but still he felt oddly elated; Peter hadn't given up on him after all.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Agent Littleton stopped at the White Collar Office before heading up two stories to Cyber Crimes. He was younger than Peter had expected but then again this was Cyber Crimes; he should have expected young. He didn't carry a briefcase the way Peter did but instead entered with a black backpack slung over his shoulder. Agent Hughes was still in his office, and Peter and Jones were the only ones on the floor, so Agent Littleton had no problem finding them.

"Agent Jones?" he asked, placing his backpack on the desk and looking from one man to the other.

Jones stepped forward. "I'm Jones," he said, extending his hand, "and this is Agent Burke. Have a good flight?"

"Not bad as far as flights go," he answered, "You guys set for the meeting?"

"Getting that way," Jones responded with a glance at Peter. "We've got about three dozen plainclothes officers, armed with photos of both Caffrey and Eden, getting situated at the main entrances to both parks and Brighton Baron's sweatshirts on the way."

"Who you plan on sending in?"

"We're sending _ourselves_ ," Peter said. "Jones will pose as the buyer; I'll be security and slip a tracker into Caffrey's pocket when I frisk him."

"And the appraiser?" Littleton opened his backpack and pulled out a file.

"Agent Abernathy is sending someone down," Peter replied nodding at the file in Littleton's hand. "You got something for us?"

"It's a case file from the Chicago PD," Littleton said. "Agent Jones thought there might be a connection between your CI and Terrence Eden and I think I found it."

The file wasn't particularly thick, but a sense of dread engulfed Peter all the same. "That on Caffrey?"

"No," he answered, "It's on Terrence Eden. This particular file is in regards to an investigation prompted by a letter that was dropped off at a Chicago Precinct. It implicated him in any number of crimes, including forced prostitution and human trafficking."

"I read about those allegations in the background you sent to Agent Jones," Peter told him. "There wasn't enough evidence to charge him."

"There wasn't enough to charge _him,"_ Littleton said, "But the Bureau's Violent Crimes Division did get enough to charge his suspected partner, Francis Douchant. He's serving life without parole at Thomson."

Peter vaguely remembered seeing the name in the pages he'd read. "What does this have to do with Caffrey?"

Littleton opened the file, took out an eight by ten black and white photo and held it up for Peter and Jones to see. "This is the person who delivered the letter."

A very young Neal Caffrey, again bruised and battered, stared back at them. If he was sixteen, Peter would be surprised. The image brought back memories of the dreams he'd had the night before; dreams of a young Neal hurt and in need of help. But the photo wasn't a dream; it was real. He felt anger rise in him; he had no doubt the man responsible for Neal's injuries then was the same man responsible for his injuries now.

"That photo was pulled from the precinct camera the day he left the letter," Littleton went on to say, placing the photo on the desk in front of them. "The quality isn't good, but that's Caffrey, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's him." Why Eden had a score to settle was now clear. Neal hadn't only left his crew, he'd informed on him to the local police as well. No wonder Neal had fled Chicago. He tore his eyes from the photo. "What exactly was in the letter?"

Littleton removed yet another paper from the file. "Read it for yourself."

Peter took the proffered page and at once recognized the small, neat print he'd seen so many times. His first move was to turn the page over, checking for a signature, _a name,_ but there was nothing. Flipping back to the front, he skimmed the letter. The writer said he worked for Terrence Eden and one of his jobs was to provide forged documents, not only for Eden but his various associates. While working in that capacity, he discovered he was providing documents for people being forced into prostitution or outright sold to abusers and pedophiles. Once he'd learned what the documents were being used for, he knew he could no longer work for Eden.

 _"I have included a list of the names used on the documents I have provided. I don't know if these people are still in the city or have been sent away. I am also providing the addresses of the three apartment buildings where people are being bought, sold and abused. Please do something to stop this. Just because no one wants them doesn't mean they don't matter. No one should have to live like that. Please help them."_

"Damn," Peter said under his breath, the appeal at letter's end making it clear what had prompted Neal's exit from Eden's crew. He looked up at Littleton. "What name did he give the officers?" He asked, passing the letter to Jones. He really wanted to know _who_ Neal Caffrey was before he was Neal Caffrey. He guessed Jones had the same thought because he immediately flipped the sheet over just as Peter had done.

"He didn't give a name," Littleton informed him. "He asked to see a Detective, and looking the way he did, they took him back to the squad room. He asked for a glass of water, and when the Detective returned with it, the boy was gone and that letter was on his desk."

"The letter mentions Terrence Eden by _name_ ," Peter said, "but Douchant was the one convicted?"

"He owned the buildings," Littleton explained, "and the Agents turned a couple of his henchmen by offering them a deal. On top of that, several people he'd forced into prostitution turned state's evidence." He shook his head. "But they couldn't find any solid evidence to connect Eden and no one would implicate him. They couldn't get anyone to cooperate, even in exchange for immunity or reduced charges. And they pushed _hard;_ Had him sewn up tight for three months. But in the end, all they had tying him to the trafficking case was the letter."

The letter Neal had given them before skipping town and heading for New York. "But without the letter _writer_ ," Peter said, "or any corroborating witnesses, they had nothing."

"Precisely," he replied. "They tried to find the boy but he just disappeared. The desk sergeant placed him between fourteen and sixteen and they figured he was a runaway Eden had recruited from the street; that was his standard operating procedure in those days. They canvased the area but no one would admit to knowing anything about him and when they ran his description through missing persons nothing came up; whoever he was, no one was looking for him. The case fell apart."

 _Whoever he was, no one was looking for him._

Littleton's statement stirred something in the back of Peter's mind. Was that _it?_ he wondered. Was that the reason Neal had reached out to his pursuer? Was having anyone, even an FBI agent bent on sending him to prison, looking for him better than having no one at all?

During the years he had chased Neal, his adversary had sent him postcards, notes with pizza deliveries to stake-outs, and cards on birthdays and holidays. Peter had taken them as taunts, the cocky mouse thumbing his nose at the cat. And where most agents would have tossed the items in the trash after a thorough examination he had kept each one. He kept them to fuel his determination to stay on the trail of the elusive Neal Caffrey.

But when the notes, cards and small renditions of famous art pieces continued to come after he'd put the man in prison, Peter had been puzzled. Elizabeth suggested that maybe the gifts hadn't been taunts at all, but instead a genuine effort to connect. Being a con artist had to be lonely and as far as they knew he had no family. Maybe Peter was the most constant thing in the young criminal's life, she'd said, and he didn't want that to end. Peter hadn't said much about her theory but if it were true, it was profoundly sad and put the confident, devil-may-care Neal Caffrey in a different light.

After that, Peter had kept the gifts for an entirely different reason than before. The small tokens began to represent an odd relationship that he, even now, had a hard time explaining or understanding. He'd pulled out the box and looked through it the day he had visited Neal in prison and he'd offered to help him catch the Dutchman; he'd taken it out again the day he decided to accept the offer.

Neal had kept his word. He'd helped Peter catch the Dutchman and had become the best CI in the business. Their unorthodox alliance produced unarguable results, and even when they weren't seeing eye to eye, Neal always came through when he needed him. And right now, Neal needed _him_. Peter's eyes dropped to the photo on the desk. That boy had been hurt; been scared. He had been all alone and no one had cared.

Peter didn't know who he'd been but he knew who he had become; he had become Neal Caffrey a felon who had somehow, inexplicably, become not only his CI but his _friend_. And he wasn't alone anymore.

"Well, someone _is_ looking for him now," Peter stated firmly, "And I intend to find him. And Eden as well; he needs to go away for a long, long time."

"On top of the current charges," Littleton began, "There's no statute of limitations on trafficking; if Caffrey can identify the letter writer, there's a chance -"

 _"_ He _is_ the letter writer," Jones interrupted, holding up the letter. "This is Caffrey's handwriting; I've seen it dozens of times."

Peter had known immediately that Neal was the letter writer as had Jones; it seemed obvious. But then again, they not only knew Neal's handwriting but his capabilities as well. It was clear the thought had never crossed Littleton's mind. He looked at Jones in disbelief. "You think _he_ was the _forger?"_

"I'm pretty sure," Jones said, handing the letter back to Littleton. He looked at Peter for verification.

"Jones is right, that _is_ his handwriting," he affirmed. "And Neal is one of the best forgers I've ever seen."

Littleton retrieved the photo from the desk and frowned at the young face. "But he was just a _kid."_

"I know, Peter said uneasily, "From the dates there," he nodded at the letter in Littleton's hand, "he showed up in New York under the name Neal Caffrey shortly after he left the letter."

"That's why they couldn't find him," Littleton shook his head. "He created a new identity for himself and got out of town. Smart." He gathered up the materials and placed them in the file, which he then stuck back down into his pack. "I'm surprised Caffrey didn't use what he had on Eden to cut a deal when you arrested him," he mused, "it would have been one hell of a bargaining chip." He slung the backpack over his shoulder. "I've got to get upstairs and check in. We'll all get together," he glanced at his watch, "in an hour or so to go over the details. Call if anything changes."

Neal never passed up an opportunity to capitalize on his knowledge and improve his situation and yet he'd never said a word about Terrence Eden. Peter hadn't been pleased with the sentence Neal had received for his crimes; four years in a maximum security prison for a non-violent first-time offender seemed harsh. But if Neal had been willing to make a deal, had revealed who he was and what he knew about Eden and his criminal activities, he probably wouldn't have served any time at all. Human trafficking trumped bond forgery in anyone's book and Neal would have known that. It was quite a card to hold and yet he hadn't played it.

With a nod at each of them, Littleton turned and made his way to the door.

"Agent Littleton is right," Jones said after the agent had left them, "Caffrey could have used this to make a deal back then; why didn't he?"

It was a good question but Peter thought he knew the answer, at least in part. Ever since he'd read the background on Terrence Eden, he'd wondered how Neal had fallen into his grasp. Was he an abused child? A runaway? Had he been homeless, scared and hungry? Had Eden offered food, shelter, protection? And once he had him at his mercy, what methods of control had he used to keep him there? Promises? Threats? Were the beatings the exception or the rule? Whatever Neal's life had been he hadn't wanted to revisit it; even if doing so would have sent Eden to prison and earned him a get out of jail free card.

"l think he tried to forget about it," Peter explained, "to pretend it never happened and he didn't want to dig it all up again."

"Even if digging it up kept him from _prison?_ " Jones asked.

Neal was proud and would never willingly admit that he had been victimized or exploited, but to secure a deal, he would have had to do just that. He would have had to tell his story, not once but half a dozen times, and he had decided four years in prison was preferable to that experience. He'd escaped Chicago and Eden; he'd changed cities as well as his name and started over. But still, his past had caught up with him. Eden had found him and forced him not only to commit a crime but to face the past he'd tried to leave behind.

"Even if."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, Neal wasn't sure how long he lay there before he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Both the touch and the voice surprised him at first, his eyes flew open, and his body tensed reflexively. Andrew, having ventured from his place against the back wall, had knelt beside him. Kidnapper or not, there was a look of concern on his young face. "What can I do?"

Neal had forgotten the boy was even in the room, but at the sight of him, his mind cleared. Memory flooded him; danger was imminent. He needed to get up, to think. His mind felt the urgency to act, but his body was less than cooperative. He tried to push himself up, but it was only with the boy's assistance that he was able to achieve an upright position. Once there, the pain in his side became intense; his vision blurred and the room swam. He would have toppled back over had the young man not had a hand on his shoulder. Breathing was difficult; there was a tightness in his chest, and the odd whistling sound had returned.

Andrew, holding Neal steady with one hand, stretched and pulled the sleeping bag over to where they were with the other. He folded it quickly and placed it behind Neal. "You need to lean back," he directed, helping ease Neal into position, "it might help you breathe better."

In usual circumstances Neal would have argued, said he was fine, and pushed through the pain. But lightheaded, unsteady and gasping for air like a fish out of water, he didn't bother with protest. The new position did help; he could breathe easier. It also provided some pain relief, but the kid's concern and acts of kindness caused him pain of a different kind. Helplessness and guilt washed over him; he should have just done what he had been told. He should have never taken a chance with the boy's life in the balance. Had he not tried to get a message to Peter the meeting would still be on, and the boy would be on his way home. But that was no longer the case.

"I'm sorry," Neal tried to keep his voice steady. "I'm sorry about all of this." It sounded lame. It _was_ lame.

"One minute you're giving the orders and the next you're bloody and getting the crap kicked out of you," the boy observed. He had to be concerned about how the change in Neal's position was going to affect the promise he'd made only minutes before, but that wasn't the question he asked. "What happened?"

"Long story." It wasn't something Neal wanted to discuss even if they had time, which they did not. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to get a look at the room. His room had been made escape proof because Terrence Eden knew him; there was a chance this room hadn't been so thoroughly vetted. "Have you looked for another way out of here?" He asked. "Is there a vent or an air duct hidden behind those shelves?" He nodded towards the back of the room. He wasn't in any condition to wiggle through a small space, but Andrew might be able to.

"No," the boy replied, "That's the first thing I looked for when they locked me in here. I even looked for something I could spray in their eyes, you know, to try to make a run for it. There's nothing."

Eden had put him into the room for short term safe keeping while he and the others cleared out the warehouse. It wouldn't take long to pack up the computers and clean out the conference room. Half and hour tops and, judging from the partially dried blood on his face, half of that time had probably already passed. Eden's intention was to take them with him, at least initially, and being moved from one location to another might provide an opportunity for escape. If the kid had been willing to attack his kidnappers armed with a spray can of industrial cleaner, maybe he'd be brave enough to make a run for it if such an opportunity arose.

"They're going to be back soon," Neal told him. "They're clearing out, and they're going to take us with them."

Neal saw a look of fear cross the boy's face. "Why?"

"Because things have changed and they need to get out of here quickly," Neal explained impatiently. "But when they-"

"Because you sent a message to the FBI?" the boy interrupted. "Are you working undercover or something?" Neal had forgotten the boy had heard the exchange between Max and Ken.

"Something like that, but listen," Neal grabbed the boy's arm, the sense of urgency returning. "If you see _any_ opportunity to get away, you have to take it. Do you understand?"

"But if you sent a message, back up's coming, right?" The hint of hope in the boy's voice pained Neal. "That's the way it is in the movies."

"Yeah," Neal said, not willing to dash the boy's hope a second time. "I'm just not sure it'll get here before they move us. Once they get us somewhere else, we're screwed. So just remember, if the opportunity arises, you have to be ready to run."

"But if I do, they'll just come after me," he stated hesitantly. "They have guns. At least the big guy does." That would be Max, the security guard. He wore heavy shoes, too.

"Not if we pick the right spot," Neal told him, "somewhere there are witnesses around; a traffic light or one of the bridges. Get to where people are; run into a crowd or into traffic. They won't risk going after you. They'll let you go."

"You really think so?"

"I know so," Neal assured him. "But you can't hesitate," he insisted. "You have to move fast and not look back. Can you do that?"

The boy nodded. "But what about you?" It was pretty clear that Neal wasn't going to be moving anywhere quickly.

"Let me worry about that." Neal braced against the pain, and rolled slightly to his side and pushed himself up. "Help me get to that chair," he said between gritted teeth.

"Do you think that's wise?" The boy asked hesitantly. "You might have internal injuries."

"I'll have more if they come back and I'm lying here." Neal didn't want to be on the floor when Max, or worse yet, Eden came back; he would be too good a target to pass up. He might be able to avoid that kind of punishment for now, but unless that movie-worthy backup arrived, he doubted he would be able to for long. Eden had promised to take his time with him, and he was particularly fond of that form of abuse. In Chicago, Tom had told him that was how Eden finished off members of his crew who had crossed him.

The boy did as he was asked, and with difficulty, helped Neal to his feet. Neal's core was already a mass of pain and movement only intensified it. He had broken ribs before, and they'd been painful, but he didn't remember it being quite this bad. His was dizzy, struggling for breath, and nauseous before they reached their destination although it was only a few feet away. The boy eased him down but sitting only provided stability and no real relief to his discomfort.

Neal had found himself on the receiving end of Eden's boots before, and it was the worst beating he'd ever experienced, before or since. Eden had enjoyed the power of towering over him, landing vicious kick after kick as he lay defenseless at his feet. Afterward, Neal had lain in the bed for several days, barely able to take care of himself, but he knew he had gotten off easy. At least he had lived; no one who openly questioned Eden had been so lucky before.

It had happened on a Thursday afternoon. Eden had gathered several members of his crew, including Neal, to go over a job he wanted done. When Eden had finished, he'd handed Neal a sheet of paper with specifications for some documents he needed quickly. It wasn't an unusual request; Neal generated a dozen or more documents each month. But when he glanced at the paper to see what he'd need, his heart had dropped. Eden needed identities for three children, children Neal knew had been sold by their guardians. Five, seven and nine-year-olds didn't run away. Neal had learned from Tom about this sickening aspect of Eden's business, but he'd never been asked to provide documents for children. Until now.

"I can't do this." He'd said it to himself but in his stress, the words had come out of his mouth without a conscious decision to speak.

The room went dead silent, and Eden looked at him in disbelief. " _Excuse_ me?"

The cold, even tone of Eden's voice sent a ripple of fear through Neal.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, terror overriding conscious."It's just-" he paused, glancing down at the paper in his hand and then back at Eden, "they're just little _kids."_

The look that flashed in Eden's eyes told Neal there was nothing he could say now to save himself. It was bad enough to have refused an order but to have done so in front of others was unforgivable. The first blow knocked him to the floor, but he wasn't left there. In a flash, he was hauled up. Eden said nothing to him. He just stepped up and began the beating. When he was finally dropped to the floor, the kicking started. Neal tried to protect his face and head, apologizing and begging or help or mercy. He received neither.

Cold air on his face had awakened him; he was no longer in Eden's office but outside. Held firmly between Eden and one of his men, he had been afraid they were going to dump in an alleyway to freeze death. He was relieved when they arrived in front of his apartment building. Hurt, woozy and unsteady on his feet; the men dragged him down the hall to the door to his apartment. He was vaguely aware of passing two of his neighbors, dressed in their usual scampy apparel, on their way out for their night's work. Neal thought he saw compassion in their faces for the split second before they dropped their eyes to the floor and moved on.

"Where's your key?" Eden had asked him when they had arrived at number four.

Neal tried to reach for his pocket but for some reason, his right arm, which was hurting fiercely, didn't cooperate. Eden read his gesture, reached in the pocket himself and removed the key. He opened the door, then secured his grip on Neal.

"I can get him from here." With a hesitant look, the man left, and Eden manhandled Neal into the apartment. Kicking the door closed behind him, Eden helped him into the bedroom. Once there, Neal sank down on the edge of the bed. Mission accomplished, he had expected the man to leave. But he didn't.

Neal could feel beads of sweat breaking out on his face as he sat there, left hand holding his useless arm protectively, hoping against hope that Eden would leave so he could hurt in peace. But Eden hadn't moved away; instead, he'd stepped closer and grabbed Neal's injured arm. Before Neal could protest, with a quick and practiced movement, Eden forced the shoulder back into its socket with a loud pop. Neal yelped in pain, but the minute the shoulder was back in place, the pain lessened considerably.

"Thanks," Neal murmured. It seemed the right thing to say since the man had eased his pain, but wrong at the same time since he was the once who'd caused it in the first place. Again, Neal hoped the man would leave, but he didn't.

Instead, Eden told him to get cleaned up. The requested seemed odd to Neal but, afraid to disobey, he stepped into the small bathroom. He hoped his compliance would be enough to satisfy the man, and he would he take the opportunity to make his exit he didn't.

Had he been alone, Neal would have taken a hot shower, not only to wash the blood from his face and neck but to ease some of the soreness that was already beginning to settle into his battered body. But with Eden standing there, he felt very uncomfortable doing that. He shed his shirt, with some difficulty, managed to wash his face.

With Eden's continued presence, his discomfort increased. It grew into a mix of fear and embarrassment, his stomach churned in dread. He'd felt that way once before; when Eden had introduced him to his business associate. He'd dropped by the restaurant one afternoon, and Eden had been there, meeting with a man Neal had never seen before. Where Eden dressed casually, and Neal had never seen him in a coat and tie, this man was dressed to the nines. Eden called him over, introducing him as the "young forger he had heard so much about." The way the man had looked at him made his skin crawl; this man, he felt, posed more of a threat than Eden. He'd been polite, but had gotten away as fast as he could. That same feeling was what he was experiencing now, under Eden's watchful eye.

His face burned in embarrassment, and he grabbed a shirt from the back of the bathroom door and hastily put it on. It was large, almost hanging off one shoulder, but it was handy. Finished, he tried to leave the room. Eden stepped menacingly into the doorway, blocking Neal's escape. Neal stumbled back, fearing what the man planned to do next.

"Please, Mr. Eden," he pleaded as he backed as far from the man as he could. Which in the small room, wasn't out of his reach. "Don't-"

Seeing the look of panic on Neal's face, Eden chuckled but didn't back away, "Don't worry Danny," he said. "I don't swing that way, but Mr. Douchant, the man who provides this apartment to you, _rent free_ ," he put special emphasis on those two words, "knows plenty of people who do."

Neal felt the blood drain from his face. He remembered what Tom had told him about Eden's other business interests and thought of the young girls with bruised faces and downcast eyes he'd passed in the hall. They were they like him, runaways with nowhere to go. Eden had probably reached out to them, too, offering them a place to sleep and a meal. But he gave nothing for free.

"He tells me a pretty face like yours can really bring in the money," his smile was cruel. "In fact," Eden continued thoughtfully, "I think he's a little partial to you himself; he's made me a couple really tempting offers."

"Please-" Neal began, but Eden had continued without pause.

"But I've turned him down because you've been useful to me." His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped. "But if you stop being useful, I will reconsider his offer. There are more ways than one to make a profit off you; don't you forget that."

With that, Eden had left him, and minutes after locking the door behind him, Neal had returned to the bathroom, physically sick. The pain from his ribs had been almost unbearable, but after what seemed like hours, the spell passed. He lay on the floor for a few minutes, before dragging himself to the bed.

There he curled up on top of the blanket remembering the tears of relief he'd shed the first night he'd spent there. He had been so grateful and willing to do most anything Eden asked of him. Fortunately, Eden had found more to use in Neal than, as he had put it, his pretty face. But others who had fallen into his trap hadn't been so lucky. After awhile, he guessed, a person could become accustomed to almost anything. Even the life that Eden had threatened him with. He thought of the children Eden had recently acquired; what awaited them? Would they even live long enough to adjust to such a horrific life or was it better if they didn't?

Neal had wept bitterly not just for himself but for all the unwanted caught in Eden's web. He had never felt so alone in his life. He had no family, nowhere he belonged. No one would even have missed him if Eden had finished him off and tossed his body into a dumpster somewhere. He had left no mark, made no impressions. The world would just go on as if he'd never existed in the first place. The pain of his despair that night had outweighed the pain of his injuries.

The next morning he'd awakened, stiff and sore but with a sense of clarity and purpose. During the next days, as he recovered from the beating, he'd composed a letter exposing Eden's vile side business including as much information as he could. A week later, when he was able to travel, he delivered the letter to a Chicago detective and left Chicago.

"Hey, _wake up_ ," Andrew's insistent voice snapped him from the past. He opened his eyes not realizing he'd even closed them. He must have blacked out because Andrew was in front of him, hands on each of his shoulders. The boy's eyes darted to the door, his apprehension evident. "I think they've come back."

Neal heard the distinctive sound of the padlock clanking against the door as it was unlocked. With sheer willpower aided by a rush of adrenaline, he struggled to his feet.

"Remember what I said, _be ready_ ," Neal whispered quickly to Andrew, grabbing the back of the chair to keep him from swaying. "Now get over there," he nodded towards the wall, "away from me; do whatever they ask and act _scared."_

As the boy stepped back, Neal heard him mumble. "I won't _have_ to act; I am scared."

This time, it was Max that entered the room. Ken, who had accompanied him, was waiting outside the door. Neal saw no sign of Terrence Eden.

"Good," Max said at the sight of him, "You can walk. Move it."

Neal tried to comply, but standing was one thing and walking another. After only a couple steps with nothing to steady him, Neal lost his footing and stumble into Max.

" _Damn,_ " the man growled. Although irritated by the collision, he held Neal steady as he called to his colleague. " _Ken._ "

Ken stepped into the room, and Max continued. "Get him," he directed, handing Neal off to the new arrival, "and I'll get the boy."

Ken did as he was directed and helped Neal into the hallway as Max ordered Andrew to exit the room as well.

Taking the opportunity, Neal whispered to Ken. "Are you going to let them _kill_ that boy?"

"I'm just getting you to the car," the man replied quietly at his ear, "and then I'm done; I have nothing to do with anything after that."

"But you _know_ what's going to happen," Neal reminded him, keeping his voice low, "and if you don't do something to stop it, its the same as doing it yourself."

Neal knew Ken didn't want any part of murder but doubted he'd do anything to incur the wrath the other two men. Still, it was worth a try.

Ken didn't respond, and a moment later they were joined by Andrew and Max. They began to move silently down the hall, he and Ken, Andrew behind them and Max bringing up the rear. Passing the break room, Neal saw that all signs of their earlier occupation were gone. The room was empty, the table bare. Neal kept his teeth clenched, the pain of being jostled growing more intense with each step he took. Soon, his vision began to blur and there was a roaring in his ears. Adrenaline spent, he struggled to move his feet; stumbling, he leaned more and more heavily on Ken.

As progress slowed, Max grew impatient, ordering Andrew to help Ken with his growing burden. By the time they reached the end of the hallway, Neal was being carried between Andrew and Ken, his feet practically dragging across the concrete floor. As they entered the open space of the warehouse, Neal managed to raise his head and, through blurred vision, saw Eden standing by the sedan. His heart rate increased; the sight of the man causing a wave of fear to wash over him. Neal knew what Eden was capable of; knew what was in store for both he and the boy. Fear gave way to despair and his head sank to again to his chest.

A moment later, Neal's chin was lifted. He forced his eyes open and Eden's face waved and swam in front of him. "Still with us, Danny boy?"

The words caused sudden tears to sting his eyes. In horror, Neal closed them tightly but not before Eden had seen. The man chuckled, letting Neal's chin drop, and Neal heard the soft clicking sound of the trunk being popped.

Andrew's hands were replaced by Eden's rough ones and Neal was lifted from the ground and toppled into the trunk. The action sent white-hot pain through him and tore a cry from his lips. Once on the floor of the compartment, Neal instinctively rolled to his side, back to his tormentor and pulled up his knees protectively. He heard Eden's voice but couldn't make out the words and a moment later, his surroundings faded from his mind and he knew no more.


	25. Chapter 25

Thanks to all who have followed and favorited this story, and special thanks to all who have posted reviews and offered me words of encouragement. I know I say it often, but it's true; you have no idea how much it helps keep me motivated. I am SO trying to wrap this up, I promise, it just doesn't seem to be cooperating with me. :)

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

Neal became aware of a roaring in his ears, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn't just in his head. He was unsure of where he was, but oddly soothed by the sound, and gentle vibration that accompanied it, he dozed on and off for a few minutes before making a concentrated effort to open his eyes. He was lying on his side, on a hard, rough surface. In the darkness, he could make nothing of his surroundings but after a moment he realized where he was and remembered how he had gotten there. Eden had put him in the trunk of his car, and they were leaving the city.

Leaving New York. Leaving Peter, and the team, and any hope of rescue. Any time Neal had managed to purchase was running out with each passing moment; each mile. He didn't know where Eden was taking him, but he knew what was in store for him once they arrived.

But he wasn't in the trunk alone; he could feel another body pressing against his back but could sense no movement. His despair gave way to fear; his heart began to race. His memory ended with Eden tossing him into the trunk; he had no idea what had happened after that. What if Eden, in his anger, had killed the boy? What if it was his _body_ Neal could feel behind him? Tossing the dead kid in the trunk with him would be just the kind of cruel thing Eden would do. Neal began to tremble, terror gripping him at the thought. He tried to speak, but no sound came.

"Andrew?" He finally managed to whisper shakily.

He was terrified there would be no answer and relief flooded him when there was. He felt the body move behind him and heard Andrew's voice, somewhere in proximity to his right ear.

"You're awake," the boy replied softly, sounding almost as relieved as Neal felt. "I was really starting to worry about you."

Neal guessed Andrew had had similar fears; no one liked the idea of sharing a trunk with a corpse.

"Sorry about that," Neal replied weakly, wondering how long the boy had lain there alone in the darkness. "Are _you_ okay? Did he hurt you?"

"No," Andrew answered quietly, "You told me to do whatever they said and that's what I did." There was a hint of shame in his voice; as if he should have done something more.

"You did good." Neal tried to shift his position but abandoned the effort when pain shot through him. After a sharp intake of breath, he continued. "Trust me, if you hadn't, you'd still be in here, but you'd be in a lot worse shape. That wasn't the time to fight."

"Does that mean there's going to be one? A time to fight?" Andrew's tone was a mixture of hopefulness and apprehension.

When he'd talked to the boy about being ready to run, he'd thought they would be traveling in the backseat of Eden's car. From there, even with Max or Eden with them, there would have been the hope of escape, especially if Neal created some kind of diversion, giving Andrew a chance to bail from the car. However, being in the trunk not only complicated the exit itself but left him operating blindly as well. He had no idea of where they were or when an opportunity was most likely to present itself. Still, there was no other choice; they would have to try. Any action taken was better than taking none at all.

"I was thinking more the time to _run_ ," Neal told him. "Are your hands and feet free?"

"My feet are," the boy answered, "but not my hands. You thinking of making a run for it when they get us out?"

Neal knew that would not work. Any chance of survival depended on the kid escaping before they arrived at whatever destination Eden had in mind.

"We can't wait that long," Neal explained. "You've got to get away before then."

"But we're locked in the trunk of a car," Andrew reminded him.

"They're ways out of a trunk," Neal replied. "Are your hands tied in front or back?"

"Front," Andrew answered. "Why?"

"There's a lever in here that releases the trunk latch. It's a safety thing. Should glow in the dark, but they might have covered it."

He could feel the boy moving about. "Even if I find the way to open the trunk," he said after a moment. "We can't just jump out; we're _moving._ "

"It should be near the latch," Neal informed him as the boy continued to feel around the darkened space. "Any idea how long have we been on the road?"

The car didn't seem to be exactly zipping along. It was, after all, New York. Andrew paused at the topic shift.

"I don't know," he replied questioningly. "Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes?"

"Good, then we're still in the city," Neal stated, "It's mid-day on the weekend. There's bound to be delays."

"So you're saying that when that happens, if we come to a stop, I should pop the trunk?"

"Or even just a slow down; get out and _run,"_ Neal urged. _"_ They'll be traffic, people, witnesses around. Eden won't risk trying to get you back; he'll be too concerned with getting away."

"So that's his name?" Andrew ventured after a moment. "Eden? He's the one behind all this?"

"Yes," Neal said, "and he's a very bad man, Andrew, worse than you can imagine. You _have_ to get away from him."

Andrew was quiet a moment. "But what about you?"

Neal's pain had lessened from the white-hot, mind-numbing agony he's experienced at the warehouse, but he knew it was only because he was lying still. Just the slightest movement would bring it back in full force, not only rendering him immobile but likely unconscious as well. Even now, there was a tightness in his chest, and he could feel his body trembling in spite of the warmth of the confined space. There was no way he could climb out of the trunk; much less run.

"Don't worry about me," he said with renewed urgency. "Just get yourself _away._ Get someone to call 911," he instructed, "and have the dispatcher put you through to Agent Peter Burke of the FBI. Tell him _everything._ "

Peter thought the meeting was still a go. He'd be waiting for a call that would never come. At least, this way, he would know where to look.

"But I don't know much to _tell,_ " the boy protested. "I don't know these men; I don't even know who _you_ are. Are you _Caffrey_ or _Danny?_ "

The boy's unexpected question caught him off guard. "I'm Neal, _Neal,_ " he insisted, his voice rising almost hysterically. "Not _Danny_. I never want to be _Danny._ "

"Shhhh," Andrew whispered urgently, fearful the outburst might draw the attention of the car's other occupants, "I'm _sorry._ Please, just calm down."

Neal took a breath; he hadn't meant to lose his composure, to risk their safety. He could feel himself growing more desperate as weakness began to settle over him. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to offer the kid any direction. Time was running out.

"You have _got_ to get out of this trunk," he whispered, lowering his voice but unable to hide his desperation. "Find that lever. Promise me, no matter what happens; you will _try._ "

"But you're hurt," the boy replied hesitantly, a hint of desperation in his tone as well. "You're _shaking;_ I don't want to leave you behind."

"You have to," Neal pleaded. "don't you understand? If you don't, we're both dead. At least this way, you can get free and send me help."

"Agent Peter Burke?" the boy whispered. " _FBI_?"

"Yes," Neal whispered. "Please, just send Peter."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The accounts had been set up, and traces were in place; NYPD plainclothes, armed with photos of Eden and Caffrey, were stationed in key positions around the parks, and both Jones and Peter were wearing the requested Brighton Baron sweatshirts. In fifteen minutes, they'd be going upstairs to Cyber Crimes to attend the pre-op meeting; an hour and a half from then, he'd slip Neal a tracking device. Hopefully, shortly after that, the hostage would be found, Eden would be arrested, and this nightmare would be over. Peter had a hard time believing it hadn't been but twenty-four hours since Mozzie had called his house, looking for Neal; it felt like it had been weeks.

Peter and Jones were gathering up their props when Agent Littleton burst through the glass door to the White Collar office.

"There's been a change of plans." Both Peter and Jones looked up in surprise. Agent Littleton followed closely by Agent Abernathy, approached them.

"Why?" Peter asked, looking from one agent to the other. "What happened?"

"Eden's on the move," Littleton explained, "Listen," he held out his phone. "This came in on the tip line fifteen minutes ago."

The men gathered around as Littleton played the recording he'd received from the tip line switchboard.

" _FBI Tip Line, how may I help you?"_

" _I have information about the Terrence Eden case."_ The caller was male; his accent that of a New Yorker.

" _What is the nature of-"_

" _He knows the FBI is on to him and that the diamond sale was a setup,"_ the man rushed on impatiently. _"He's on his way to an airfield near Sloatsburg; he has a private plane coming for him at three thirty."_

" _Do you have a description of the vehicle?"_

" _A black Chevy Impala with tinted windows and Minnesota_ plates." The man supplied quickly. _"Caffrey and the Carver kid are in the trunk."_

Peter glanced at Littleton, not liking the sound of that at all. Information on their operation had been leaked, but how much? What exactly did Eden know? Was Neal even still alive?

Apparently, the operator had similar concerns. " _The trunk?"_ she repeated. _"Are they alive?"_

 _"They were ten minutes ago."_ Peter's relief lasted only until the man's next words. " _But Caffrey's in bad shape. The kid's okay now, but he won't be for long. Eden's not taking them with him; he's going to kill them once he gets to the hanger. If you want to save them,"_ he said, _"You better get them before they get there."_

"The call came from the Middletown-Pelham area," Littleton supplied once the call had ended. "but was too brief to get a more specific location. Does the name Carver mean anything to you?" Littleton asked. "Or to Caffrey? We ran it, but nothing came up. No missing person reports or anything."

"It doesn't ring a bell with me, but I can't speak for Neal," Peter answered impatiently. _Who_ the kid was didn't matter right now. They knew _where_ he was; locked in a trunk with an injured Neal. "Jones," he said, "get a bolo out on that vehicle-"

"Already done," Littleton interrupted his order. "And they're checking bridge cam's as well. Likely will cross the George Washington and head up the Jersey Turnpike."

"We can get them before they get that far," Peter stated, reaching across the desk and grabbing his coat. He needed out, mobile. "They only left about twenty-five minutes ago and, with Sunday traffic-"

"Agent _Burke._ " Littleton's tone stopped him mid-sentence, indicating he was overstepping his authority and was not the one in charge. Littleton cut the inevitable awkward silence short by continuing, his tone again congenial. "We want to _track_ him, not _stop_ him," he explained. "Eden thinks he has an escape plan, but we know where he's going; it will be a cleaner collar if we take him when he arrives at the hanger."

"Sloatsburg is what," Peter protested, "at least an _hour away_? You _heard_ the caller; Neal's hurt-"

"I know, and _you_ read Eden's _file_ ," Littleton fired back, undaunted. "If he sees a traffic check, or gets blue-lighted, do you think he's going to just _stop?"_ He didn't wait for Peter to reply. " _Hell_ no; he's going to run, and if he gets cornered, he's going to fight to the death and take as many with him as he can. Including your CI and that kid."

Peter had to give Littleton credit; young or not, he stood his ground. He also was correct. Eden knew the FBI was looking for him, and with two kidnap victims in his trunk, he'd have nothing to lose. All Peter had been thinking about was getting Neal out of that trunk as soon as possible, but a confrontation between Eden and the Police could end badly. Taking him by surprise at the hanger was tactically the best course of action. Again he'd let his personal feelings cloud his judgment.

"You're right," he admitted with a quick nod. "So what's the plan?"

"Walk while we talk?" Littleton asked, moving towards the exit. He didn't pause for an answer but simply continued to speak as he progressed. Peter stepped up beside him, and the others fell into step behind them. "We want to maintain Eden's sense of security," Littleton said. "We want to keep _tabs_ on him but not spook him into deviating from his plan. There's only one private airfield near Sloatsburg," he informed. "I've contacted both the Ramapo Police Department and the State Police at Warwick and brought them up to speed on our situation. They're coordinating their efforts. The Ramapo PD is setting up relay surveillance along the access roads to the airfield to track Eden's progress, and the State Police is putting a team in place at the hanger. They'll stay out of sight, and once Eden arrives, they'll move in." He glanced at his watch. "If we leave now, we shouldn't be too late to the party."

The plan sounded solid. Local PD, State Police. Coordinated effort. Agent Littleton not only walked and talked quickly but worked quickly as well. He had put everything in place in less than the fifteen minutes between the tip and his arrival at the White Collar Office. There was only one problem Peter saw; Eden was not likely to surrender even if he was surrounded.

"You said he wouldn't go down without a fight," Peter reminded him as they arrived at the elevator. "What happens if he comes out shooting?" Even though a showdown at a private airfield was preferable to one on a city street, it would still pose a danger to Eden's hostages.

Littleton reached out and pressed the down button. "Didn't I mention?" he asked, turning to Peter with a grin. "I requested that the State Police send a couple of sharpshooters for good measure; if Eden as much as twitches an _eyelid,_ they'll put him down like the dog he is."

Slightly surprised and yet encouraged by Littleton's statement, Peter stepped into the elevator. He glanced sideways at the young man who was tapping his fingers impatiently on the rail of the elevator. There was definitely more to the Agent than he'd first realized. From Cyber Crimes, of course, he was smart; his mind and his mouth moved at a hyper speed most of the time. But he was tough as well. He'd stood up to Peter's pushback without batting an eye and had the balls to request snipers from the State Police. Peter had to admit that he'd never thought much of techno-agents tracking criminals through cyberspace, but after having met Agent Littleton, he might have to rethink his previous prejudice.

The conversation that followed was logistical. Cyber Crimes had a tech team set to monitor traffic cams and communications and to keep everyone involved informed and coordinated. In fact, as they stepped out on the ground floor, everyone's cell buzzed; A black Chevy Impala with Minnesota plates had just crossed the George Washington Bridge.

"They aren't too far ahead of us," Littleton said, "They'll probably take the turnpike up and hit State Road 4, then State Road 17 up to Sloatsburg."

When they reached the ground floor, they parted company, Agents Abernathy and Littleton going to their car and Peter and Jones going to theirs.

"So, what do you think of Agent Littleton?" Jones asked once they were alone.

"Well, he talks a mile a minute and can't stand still, but he seems to be a solid agent," Peter replied, turning the key in the ignition. "I like him better than I expected to."

"So do I," Jones responded. "He kind of reminds me of Neal."

Peter looked at Jones in surprise, but it was true. Agent Littleton did remind him of Neal. Another person who, after having met him, he had liked more than he'd expected to.

The caller has said that Neal was in bad shape. How bad, Peter wondered, and could he hang on until they reached Sloatsburg?

There was a part of him that wished he'd be the one to drop Terrence Eden like a dog.


	26. Chapter 26

_To clarify, my_ earlier _statement about wrapping things up refers to the main plot resolution, not the story in whole. :)_

 ** **Chapter Twenty-Six****

When the Section Chief had left the office he'd instructed Peter to keep him apprised of the situation, so once he and Jones had passed through the Lincoln Tunnel, Peter made the call. He filled Agent Hughes in on everything that happened and what the new plan entailed. So many things had changed in the course of just a few minutes. It seemed to be the rule, not the exception, in this case.

"Damn," Hughes said when Peter had finished the rundown. "Any idea of what the source of the leak is? Could the _current_ plan be at risk of exposure as well?"

Peter and Agent Littleton had had the very same discussion. At the end of it, they'd decided the only people they could trust was one another. And their respected offices, of course.

"We've taken every precaution to make sure that doesn't happen," Peter assured Hughes. "Agent Littleton is keeping this strictly need-to-know. He chose not to inform the Marshal Service or the NYPD about the tip we received. He's using the State Police and the Ramapo Police Department as back up."

The truth was that once Eden had crossed the Hudson into New Jersey, he was no longer in the NYPD's jurisdiction. Of course, the Federal Marshal Service, like the FBI, knew no boundaries. Their badges were as good in New Jersey as in New York.

"Does that mean that Detective Johnson and his plainclothes officers are standing around the park looking for a man who's not going to show?" He could hear a hint of amusement in Hughes' voice.

"Yes sir, it does." Peter liked the thoughts of that as well. Agent Johnson, all of them really, had been so eager to pin everything on Neal and to boot _him_ off the case, he felt justified in his enjoyment of the turnabout.

"He's going to raise hell when he finds out he was cut out of the loop and sent on a wild goose chase," Hughes remarked. "The Marshal Service won't be happy, either."

"They'll get over it," Peter retorted. "That leak came from _somewhere_ , and the Marshal Service still has no idea how their tracking data was altered. There could be a dirty agent over there for all we know. Anyway, it wasn't my call," Peter reminded him. "They can take it up with Cyber Crimes; they are the ones in charge."

"I saw Agent Littleton when he stopped by to see you on his way up to the twenty-third floor," Hughes remarked. "Looked fresh outta the academy to me. Think he can handle the heat that might come down on him?"

"Oh yeah," Peter said, thinking back to his earlier confrontation with the young agent. "He can handle it. He's tougher than he looks."

"Well, you know," Hughes ventured. "In a way, this is actually a _good_ development. It was going to be risky, getting a tracking device to Caffrey and following him back to Eden, and there was no guarantee the hostage would even be there. With this, at least we know exactly where everyone is, and where they are _going_ to be. It makes the situation much more manageable."

Hughes sounded like Agent Littleton. Even though Peter knew the current situation presented a better scenario for case resolution, he was still worried. The caller to the tip line had said Neal was in bad shape. He was hurt, probably seriously, and trapped in the trunk of a car. It was hard to see that as a good development. Of course, he understood where both Agent Hughes and Agent Littleton were coming from; they were looking at it from the standpoint of Federal Agents with a case to solve. He, on the other hand, was looking at it as a Federal Agent with a _friend_ to save.

"Agent Littleton has put a solid plan in place," Peter acknowledged firmly, "and once Eden gets to the airfield, it should be easy to take him out. I mean," he amended, "to _arrest_ him."

Hughes didn't miss the Freudian slip. "I like the first option myself," he chuckled quietly. "Just keep me informed, and Peter," he added, "go up there and bring our CI _home_."

It pleased Peter to hear Hughes refer to Neal that way, and he knew Neal would like it too. He just hoped he got the chance to tell him about it.

"I intend to do just that, sir."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Westbound on NJ 495, with Agent Abernathy and Agent Littleton somewhere behind them, Peter and Jones had just passed Columbus Avenue when both their phones buzzed; the tech analyst at Cyber Crimes had sent a new message. Peter guessed either a highway patrol had spotted the vehicle and was reporting in or it had been captured on one of Jersey's 511 Traffic cams and the Cyberkids had caught it.

By Peter's best guess, Eden and his unwilling cargo were about half an hour ahead of them but he figured he could make up a lot of that time. The traffic Eden was dealing with was more intense than what he was currently battling; I-95 from Palisades Interstate Parkway up to the exit at State Road 4 was one of the worse bottlenecks in the city.

Peter glanced sideways at Jones, who was reading the update that had come through. When he didn't immediately share the information, Peter prompted him to do so.

"Well?" He asked impatiently.

Jones frowned. "There's been some kind of incident on 95 involving a vehicle matching the description of Eden's."

Peter felt his heart drop. Things seemed only to go from bad to worse; never worse to _better._ "What kind of _incident_? An accident?"

"No," Jones said. "It says, _A vehicle matching the general description was reported for suspicious activity on I-95 just past the Fletcher Avenue overpass. "_

"That's it?" Peter asked. Suspicious activity was a bit vague; it could mean any number of things, from erratic driving to a dog's head hanging out the window. After all, _suspicious_ was in the eye of the beholder. "That's all it _says?_ "

"Yeah, except for _standby will advise_ ," Jones mumbled. "I guess that means we just _standby_ to be _advised."_ Jones wasn't used to waiting for information; usually, he was the one keeping up with communications, gathering relevant information, compiling it and reporting _back._

"Damn it," Peter muttered, not only picking up on Jones' irritation but sharing it. He didn't like to wait either. Eden's car being reported for any infraction was counter productive but of course, at the moment, there was no way of knowing if it was even Eden's. The location sounded right, but there was no telling how many black, mid-size cars with tinted windows were passing through that stretch of road right now.

He was waiting impatiently for the phones to buzz with the promised update but instead of a buzz, he got a ring.

"Burke." He hit the answer button before the first ring completed, hoping it was Agent Littleton updating him in person. Getting tidbits via text message might work for some but not for him; he liked to be able to ask questions and get answers. However, it wasn't Agent Littleton's voice that came across the speaker.

"This is 911 Dispatcher number 129 of the Fort Lee Police Department; I have an emergency call for Agent Peter Burke. Please hold while I put it through."

Peter not only held the line but his breath as well; was it possible? Could Neal have managed to escape? He waited expectantly for the call to complete, but it wasn't Neal's voice that came across the line, either.

"Agent Burke," the breathless voice didn't pause for confirmation. "He told me to just jump out, to run into traffic; anything to get attention because no one even knew where we were and he said I had to talk to you first thing, to tell you everything I know but I really don't-"

"Slow _down_ ," Peter interjected, stopping the sudden barrage of words before the caller passed out from lack of oxygen. The voice on the other end of the line sounded young. " _Who_ told you to call me?" Peter knew but asked the question anyway.

He heard the boy take a shaky breath, and when he resumed speaking his pace was a bit more manageable. "He said his name was Neal Caffrey," The boy reported carefully, "He was in the trunk of the car with me. He told me how to get out and made me promise that if the car stopped or even slowed down, I'd-," The boy was interrupted; Peter could hear voices on the other end. " _Stop_ it," the boy snapped, followed by an insistent, "I'm _fine._ " Peter guessed someone was trying to find out if he was injured. "It's just a _scratch,"_ he further insisted, _"_ Let me _talk_."

Peter was undoubtedly speaking with the Carver kid; the hostage Neal had been trying to protect. And he had succeeded; the boy was now free from his captors. At least Neal was talking, giving instructions; that was a good sign. But the fact that he hadn't exited the trunk himself as well was not.

Apparently the boy's request was heeded because the background chatter ceased.

"They can't have gotten far," he continued with a growing sense of urgency. "It's only been like five minutes since they left. That's how I got banged up," he explained reluctantly, telling Peter there was probably a reason for the concern of the people on the scene. "I fell when they took off. The car is a black Chevrolet, with tinted windows; I don't know the model, but you have to go after it."

Peter wanted nothing more than to do just that but of course, there was more to it than a simple pursuit. The whole plan had been to preserve Eden's sense of security and take him at the airfield; having one of his kidnap victim bail on the highway was bound to have shaken it. How would Eden respond to that? Would he make a beeline for the hanger, or duck off-road and get rid of the car, and Neal in the process? It could go either way. The boy jumping out of the car might have increased the danger to Neal instead of reducing it but there was no way the kid, or Neal, could have known that. If the call hadn't come into the tip line, it might have been their one and only chance of survival.

"We will," He assured the boy. "What's your name?"

"My name is Andrew, Andrew Carver, and the man behind this," the boy continued without missing a beat. "Neal called him _Eden._ I don't know if that's his first name or last. I only saw him once, but I can describe him. The other guys, the ones who grabbed me at the practice field, I can describe them, too."

He'd been grabbed at a practice field. "How _old_ are you, Andrew?"

"Sixteen," the boy answered. "Where are the _police_?" He sounded irritated. "Shouldn't they be here already?" Peter could almost see the boy looking around impatiently.

"They should be on the scene any minute now," Peter told him, "These men, there were three of them?"

"That's all I saw," Andrew said, "but I was stuck in a closet most of the time."

"Was Neal in there with you?"

"Not until the end," the boy replied. "They carried him in and just dropped him. He was hurt already, but the big guy kept _kicking_ him. I thought he was gonna kill him."

Peter felt his face flush with anger at the thought of Neal, hurt, on the ground and being kicked. Again, he wished he could be the one to deliver a kill shot to Terrence Eden. But knowing there was still useful information to be had, he pushed that image from his mind and moved on.

"Did they tell you _why_ they took you?" The boy hadn't been a target of opportunity grabbed off the street; he'd been taken from a specific location. Littleton had thought the hostage might have been chosen because of some tie to White Collar or Neal, but Peter had never heard of him and the boy didn't seem to have known Neal before the unfortunate event so there must have been some other criteria for choosing him.

"They needed my mom to do something for them," the boy went on to explain, "something at her job. They said if she did it, they'd let me go."

Peter heard the phones beep; another update had come through. Somehow he doubted a text message could hold the kind of information he was currently gathering, so he didn't pause to have Jones read him in. "Where does your mom work?"

"At a company called SecureAlert."

The name rang a distant bell, but he couldn't immediately place why. "What is that?" Peter pressed, "What does she do there?"

"She's a programmer," the boy supplied, "She programs GPS tracking devices. You know the kind criminals wear on their ankles when they are under house arrest?"

He knew the kind very well. That information certainly clicked into place, answering at least one question; who had altered Neal's tracking device data. Across the phone line, Peter could hear sirens indicating that Emergency Services and Patrol had arrived on the scene.

"Sounds like the Calvery's come," he said to the boy. "Give the officer your statement, Andrew; they'll call your mom, and she can meet you at the hospital."

"But I'm not the one _hurt_ ," the boy countered. "Neal is; I couldn't get him to _wake_ up. Do you _understand?"_ his voice was beginning to verge on hysteria _. "_ You have to find him before it's too _late_."

"We're _going_ to find him," Peter reassured firmly, keeping his tone positive even though he was feeling anything but. The caller to the tip line had said Eden planned to kill his hostages once they arrived at the hanger, but it sounded like the kid thought the danger posed could be even more eminent. "We know where to look and what to look for. You relax and let them take care of you; you might have injuries you're not aware of."

Peter could again hear voices raised in question and concern on the other end of the line.

"I didn't want to leave him," the boy mumbled, his voice cracking with emotion. The adrenaline produced by the fight or flight response had run its course, and the trauma he'd experienced was starting to take its toll. "But he made me _promise;_ promise to get away and to send help." He paused. "That's the last thing he said before he passed out; _Please send Peter._ That's you, _right_?"

There was a noticeable strain in the young voice. Was his job completed, the boy seemed to be asking, had he fulfilled his promise?

"Yeah, Andrew, that's me," Peter said, trying to keep his own emotions in check. He could feel Jones' eyes on him but he kept his own on the road. "You've done your part; Consider me _sent_."

 _Please send Peter?_ There was no way in hell those were going the be the last words spoken by Neal Caffrey.

Peter ended the call and even though a message had come through, Jones remained silent for a full thirty seconds before sharing it. Having heard the exchange over the speaker phone, Peter guessed his partner knew he needed a minute.

"Eden took the next exit off 95; State Road 4." Jones finally said. "Think he's running?"

Leaving the interstate for State Road 4 might mean Eden was running but not necessarily: that had been his projected route from the beginning. He might simply be sticking to his original plan and taking the most direct route to Sloatsburg. But if he was running, there were any number of places he could disappear into if he chose to; Fort Lee, Englewood, Hackensack. Plenty places to leave his car, and Neal, and pick up another.

But less than a half hour from his destination, would he take the time, and the risk, of dumping the Impala and acquiring another mode of transportation? Peter didn't know and not knowing made it difficult to plan accordingly. Of course, the plan wasn't up to him anyway, but he was going to have his say in it regardless.

"Well?" Jones said. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm calling Agent Littleton."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"I was just getting ready to call _you_ , Agent Burke," Littleton said when he answered Peter's call. "The hostage Eden was holding _escaped."_

"I know," Peter informed him, "I just talked to him." Phones buzzed all around before Peter could explain or ask how the situation was being handled.

"Eden's car just passed through the intersection of 4 and Jones Avenue," Littleton read off, relaying the message to Agent Abernathy much the way Jones had been doing for him. "What do you mean you talked to him?" he resumed, "EMT on the scene says he's unconscious."

"Well he wasn't two minutes ago," Peter informed him with concern. "What's his condition?" The boy had insisted he was fine but now Peter knew his claim had been false.

"Stable, but serious," Littleton replied. "He hit the pavement pretty hard when the car took off; probable concussion and a broken radius. They'll know more when they get him to St. Barnabas; they're loading him up right now. _How_ did you talk to him?"

"He asked the Fort Lee 911 dispatcher to patch him through to me," Peter replied.

"But how would he even know-" Littleton began but stopped as the answer occurred to him. "Caffrey told him to call you. Get any new information?"

Peter told him what he'd learned; the kid's name, why he'd been taken, and also the disturbing news about Neal's state.

"Are the local LEOs in pursuit?" Peter asked as he finished up.

"It never got that far," Littleton told him. "Eden whipped out onto the shoulder and was gone in a matter of seconds. The witnesses were so concerned about the condition of the passenger they didn't get much of a description. We contacted the local authorities and read them; they'll be spotters but will make no effort to interfere with Eden's progress in any way."

"But what if Eden panics?" Peter said. "If he takes any one of the side roads off that main thoroughfare we could _lose_ him." And lose Neal, the thought but didn't say.

"I'll know in," Littleton paused. "About eight minutes."

"Know what?" Peter asked in confusion.

"If he's panicked or not," Littleton explained. "If he thinks he's still in the clear, he'll stick to his route and pass the traffic cam at Hackensack. If he doesn't, well..."

"Neal's screwed."


	27. Chapter 27

_I feel the need to remind readers that I am a hurt/comfort fan so if that's not your thing, my stories may not (generally speaking) be for you._ _As always, thanks to all of those who keep me motivated and encouraged by following, favoriting, and reviewing._

 **Chapter Twenty-seven**

A rush of noise brought Neal to consciousness; his eyes opening in dull confusion. While still trying to gather his thoughts, there was a screeching sound of tires on asphalt and quick acceleration. The sudden movement took him by surprise, slinging him backward and tearing a cry of pain from his dry lips.

Now on his back, he realized he was still in the trunk of the car, but it was open; he could see blue sky above him. As he squinted against the brightness, the car swerved erratically, leaving the road and encountering obstacles that bounced him violently across the small space. The pain was intense, and again he cried out. He pressed an arm against his midsection and placed the other on the side of the trunk, bracing himself for the impending impact he was sure was to follow. But seconds later, after another series of bumps rocked the vehicle and sent waves of pain through him, the surface beneath the car again was smooth.

But the smoothness of the highway did nothing to calm the mind-numbing pain the brief off-road excursion had awakened in his body. Both arms now protectively wrapped around his body, Neal felt himself beginning to tremble. His chest was tight; his breaths came fast and shallow, and white-hot pain radiated from his left side, engulfing him. He remembered lying on the cold floor of the warehouse, feeling Max's heavy boots pounding into his already tender ribs. And for a moment, the memory blurred into an earlier one; when he'd been on the floor of Eden's office, surrounded by a room of silent onlookers as Eden had inflicted the same punishment.

Terrence Eden was a cruel, evil man and he would have his revenge for both past and present transgressions. He would take his time and enjoy it, too. That's what he'd said. In spite of his efforts, he had failed to save himself or even Andrew from that fate. No one knew where they were so there would be no one to rescue them or to intervene on their behalf. Just like there had been no one there for him in Chicago.

Despair and dread washed over him. He knew what was in store for him and the boy once Eden pulled them out of the trunk.

 _Him and the boy_.

As those words echoed in his cloudy mind, Neal's eyes flew open in sudden realization. He glanced around the small space to verify it was fact and not just wishful thinking.

But it was true; he was in the trunk alone. Andrew was not there.

Relief flooded him. The kid had done it. He had found the lever, opened the trunk and gotten out. That was why the trunk was open, bouncing slightly as they zipped along the highway and why the car had been moving so erratically. Andrew had gotten out, and Eden had been in such a hurry to get away that he'd sped away without taking the time to close the trunk.

Neal's despair gave way to near elation. Andrew was safe; he _would_ return home, grow up and have a life. He would not die at the hands, or feet, of Terrence Eden.

In addition to that, his escape would alert everyone that the meeting scheduled at the park was off. Peter and the others would know Eden had changed his plans and was on the move. They would know what area he was traveling in and have a description of the car. Andrew would talk to Peter, hopefully removing any lingering doubts he might have about Neal's involvement in the crimes perpetrated over the past few days.

Armed with that information, it was only a matter of time until Peter closed in on Eden.

Hope, like the puffy white clouds in the sky above him, now floated across Neal's mind, doing more to alleviate his suffering than a dose of morphine.

He hadn't realized that he had dozed off, comforted by hope and lulled by the now gentle vibrations of the wheels against the highway, until a loud honk of a car, close by, pierced through the constant sound of traffic. The trunk was still open, but the car had begun to slow down, the surface beneath it grew rough as it moved to the shoulder of the road. It rolled to a stop, but the engine continued to run. Neal heard a car door open and waited to see who was coming to deal with him. Whatever the price he would pay for helping free Andrew it was well worth it.

It was Max who appeared at the back of the car, a scowl on his face.

He knew it was unwise, but he couldn't help himself. "Lose something?"

Max made a move towards him and Neal flinched in anticipation; but instead of a blow, he felt a jab in his shoulder. He opened his eyes in surprise as Max withdrew the syringe. It looked like the one Eden had threatened him with in the car after the robbery.

"What is that?" He croaked, hating the sound of fear in his voice. "What did you-" He only managed those few words before his tongue became unwieldy and uncooperative. Numbness began to sweep over him just as it had that first time on the street in front of June's. The sensation was both disconcerting and pleasant; disconcerting because he could feel his mind clouding over, becoming unfocused but pleasant in that the pain in his body, so severe, was beginning to simply evaporate away. The relief was so sweet; he almost didn't care how it had come, or that the brightness of the day was growing dim.

"You're lucky Mr. Eden wants to keep you around," Max growled, his face fading before Neal's eyes. "If it were up to me, I'd just kill you and be done with it."

The world grew dark before the trunk slammed shut above him; moments later he was floating weightlessly and then there was nothing.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Would Eden panic or not? They knew the answer to the question in less than eight minutes.

 _Suspect's vehicle identified by unmarked patrol on Knickerbocker Road north of Ivy Lane in Englewood._

That location was _not_ State Road 4; Eden had left his projected course, and Peter instinctively sped up as Jones read the update.

It was what he was afraid would happen; Andrew's escape had shaken Eden's sense of security. Even though Eden had been aware the authorities were on to him; he expected the manhunt to be centered around the meeting location and that he had a solid jump on leaving the city without detection. However, when one of his hostages escaped on the highway, all that changed. The manhunt would now shift from where he wasn't, to where he had been. And the authorities would not only have a general area to focus their hunt but likely a description of his vehicle as well. Eden would now be thinking about ways to minimize his risks of being caught. He'd gotten off the main highway and would probably be looking to dump the car, and Neal, at the first opportunity. Peter was about to call Agent Littleton when his phone rang: Littleton had beat him to it this time.

"Everything is under control, Agent Burke," Agent Littleton rushed with assurance before Peter could verbalize his concern. "Englewood PD has an unmarked car on Eden; they're keeping their distance, but they have him in sight."

That news calmed Peter somewhat, and he let up on the gas pedal; even at eighty miles per hour, he couldn't get to Neal faster than those already tailing him. At least someone had eyes on Eden, and that gave Peter some comfort. He'd been afraid that Eden would exit State Road 4 and disappear, not resurfacing until he arrived at the hanger. _Without_ Neal. Peter wished it were him following the Impala, but he was just glad someone was.

"Do they know the situation?" Peter asked Littleton. "Do they know Neal is in the trunk of that car?"

"Yes, Agent Burke, they are aware that Eden has an injured hostage with him," Littleton told him. "That's the reason they're tailing him; to monitor his moves. If he pulls off or ducks into any questionable area, they'll call for backup and move in immediately."

Again, that brought Peter some relief. It may still result in what they'd hoped to avoid, a confrontation on the street, but Neal stood a better chance of surviving that than if they did nothing.

"So right now, they're just following him."

"They'll be switching out every few blocks to keep him from spotting them, but as long as he stays on the road, they'll let him go. He can't hurt Caffrey while they're in transit and we know where he's headed."

"You think he's just taking a back way to Sloatsburg?" Peter had wondered if Eden would risk stealing a car. That crime itself would present particular challenges and possibly attract even more unwanted attention. "That he might just keep with the Impala?"

"I think it's a possibility," Littleton said. "Trying to boost a car this time of day would be difficult, especially if he didn't come prepared. Eden might just try to avoid major highways and toll booths and get to Sloatsburg as fast as he can. Once he's there, he can hide his car in the hanger. He thinks he'll be home free."

"Knickerbocker Road _is_ part of an alternative route to Sloatsburg," Jones informed them, looking up from his phone. Peter guessed he'd pulled up a map of the area in question. "Knickerbocker, to Grand Avenue, to Lafayette Ave and then Orange Turnpike right into Sloatsburg."

Maybe Eden _was_ just heading for the hanger and not planning a stop along the way. Littleton seemed to think as long as the car was moving, Neal was safe, but Peter wasn't so sure. Neal was already hurt, according to what Andrew had said seriously, and this detour was going to extend the time he spent in the trunk.

"How long will it take him to get there?" Peter asked.

"Best guess? About forty minutes." Forty more minutes before he could get to Neal.

Agent Littleton had heard the comment through the speaker phone. "That's good news, Agent Burke," he said. "That means we can get to that hanger before he does."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The updates at first came quickly, a play by play, or rather, turn by turn, of every move the black Impala took. Jones read each of them aloud as they came through.

 _Suspect left on High Street._ Suspect _right on Bogerts Mill Rd. Turning left on Harriot Avenue._

Peter wanted to be the one tailing Eden, especially if something went wrong, but since that wasn't possible, he consoled himself with the fact that, if things _didn't_ go wrong, he'd be at the hanger when Eden arrived. The frequency of the messages helped pass the time and keep his mind focused on Eden's progress to Sloatsburg as well as his own. Each time the phones vibrated, he felt tense apprehension until Jones read the message, assuring him that Eden was still on course and hadn't stopped anywhere to dispose of Neal. So for the first twenty minutes or so there wasn't much time to contemplate Neal's past with Eden, delve into what Neal had suffered at Eden's hands then or what'd he encountered once the man had found him again.

But once Eden made this final turn onto Orange Avenue, which would soon change to the Orange Turnpike and run right into Sloatsburg, the updates became scant and Peter's mind began to cycle through the information he'd learned about Terrence Eden. The files on Eden had been pretty extensive, painting the picture of a man without conscious who saw people only as commodities, to be bought and sold, used and abused. That of course, lead to wondering how Neal had fallen into his grasp and what his life had been like while a part of Eden's crew. All Peter knew for sure came from the letter Littleton had brought from the Chicago PD. It had given a lot of information about Terrence Eden's suspected activities and revealed a young Neal's character and sense of right and wrong, but it told nothing about him personally; he hadn't even signed his name.

So the same questions kept coming to Peter's mind; how old had Neal been when Eden had recruited him? Who had he been, and where were his parents? Was he a runaway or an orphan? How long had he worked for Eden before he penned the letter and made his escape? Neal was the only one who could provide answers, and even if Peter got the opportunity to ask them, he doubted Neal would be forthcoming. For someone who could talk nonstop on any number of topics, often driving Peter to distraction with his endless banter, Neal said little about his past or personal life. He had never once mentioned anything about Terrence Eden; even though, as both Littleton and Jones had pointed out, he could have traded the information he had on the man for his freedom. It was clearly a topic Neal didn't want to revisit and Peter didn't see that changing.

The phones buzzed and Peter looked at Jones quickly in concern.

"Evan McAllister in custody; hanger secure," Jones ticked off.

The update brought Peter's mind back to the present. State Police would be in place well before Eden arrived and only ten minutes out themselves, so would they. He would be there when Eden was either shot or arrested, and he'd be there for Neal.

But as eager as he was to pop the trunk of that car, he was concerned about what he would find when he did. Andrew's words kept replaying in his mind. What if he was too late?

He pushed that thought from his mind. Neal, like Agent Littleton, was tougher than he looked. Andrew was young; he'd been traumatized by the violence he'd witnessed and may have thought Neal's injuries were more serious than they actually were. He told himself that but, in his heart, he knew that wasn't the case. The caller to the FBI Tip Line had made similar observations about Neal's condition, and he sounded neither young _nor_ traumatized. Neal had been beaten more than once and then kicked as he lay defenseless on the floor.

The thoughts of that made Peter's blood boil as did the knowledge that these weren't the first beatings Neal had experienced at the hands of Terrence Eden. Neal's face from the photo Littleton had shown him earlier mixed with the images of Neal from his dreams, causing a knot to form in Peter's stomach and his foot to press on the accelerator.

The speedometer crept upwards even though his increase in speed did nothing to hasten Eden's progress along the Orange Turnpike. He hit the redial on his phone.

"Have the Ramapo County EMS on standby," he directed when Agent Littleton answered the phone. Feeling Jones' eyes on him, he tried to adjust his tone. "Just in case Neal is in need of medical attention."

"Already done, Agent Burke," Littleton told him. "They'll have a unit waiting at the Hess station, less than a mile away. Once they get the all clear, they've assured me they can be at the hangar in less than three minutes."

Peter was surprised that in the midst of coordinating with both the Ramapo Police Department and the State Police, and probably handling angry calls from the NYPD and the Marshal's Service, Littleton had thought to make such preparations.

"That's good to know," Peter said. "We're about ten minutes out; where are you?"

"Right behind you," the agent replied. Peter glanced in the rearview mirror. It was true; the agents were directly behind them. Apparently, Agent Abernathy had adhered as closely to the speed limit as he had. "The Hess station will be on the left just after you turn on Eagle Valley Road," Littleton continued. "Let's stop there and ride the rest of the way together."

The phone buzzed almost immediately after the call ended. Another update.

"Eden just crossed the Ramapo County line," Jones reported. "Should arrive at the hanger in just under twenty minutes." He glanced at Peter. "Neal can hang on for twenty more minutes."

The statement held more hope than confidence and Peter realized that although Jones had said very little, he too was worried about Neal's condition.

"From your lips to God's ears," Peter replied quietly.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Neal suddenly found himself in Eden's office. The overhead light was off; the only illumination came from the green shaded pedestal lamp to his right and it left the outer edges of the dark paneled room in shadows. He was standing in front of the desk, his usual position when Eden summoned him, but the large chair behind it was empty. He looked around the room. There was no sign of Eden or any of the others; he was in the office alone.

His mind was strangely unclear, unfocused. Why was he here? Had he just wandered in? He shouldn't be in here, alone and uninvited; Eden would be angry and that was not good. Neal did his best to avoid Eden's wrath but it had been harder and harder to do lately. The man had had been more irritable, his approval more elusive. Neal suspected he was having difficulties in some aspect of his business. Whatever those difficulties were, Eden was feeling pressure and had been taking his frustration out on everyone around him for several weeks. Any transgression, or even just a question at the wrong time, could be met with an explosion of anger. No one was spared from being verbally berated in front of the others but with Neal, the verbal abuse at times escalated into the physical kind. It hadn't been anything too serious so far; usually, the result was just a red handprint on his face or once, when Eden's palm had landed wrong, a bloody nose. But as a rule, it was the humiliation that stung more than the blows themselves. Neal's way of dealing was to avoid the man whenever possible, work harder, be more careful, and try his best to not do anything to set him off.

A feeling of dread engulfed him; being here would set Eden off. He needed to get out before he was found. But instead of leaving, Neal glanced down at the desk. It was covered with papers, documents, and photographs; they were scattered haphazardly on its surface. That was odd. Eden's desk was always neat and organized. Even though he knew he needed to get out, something made him reach down and pick up one of the photographs. It was the photo of a young man with sandy blond hair and frightened eyes; he was wearing a sweatshirt that said Brighton Barons.

He felt a sensation of tingling all over his body as if a low volt of electricity was running through him. Andrew's picture shouldn't be here, but then he realized _he_ shouldn't be here, either. He wasn't Danny anymore; he was Neal Caffrey. He had escaped from Terrence Eden, he had left Chicago and started a new life. He couldn't be here; this was all wrong.

"This is your fault, Danny." He spun around at the sound of Eden's voice. The man had appeared silently and seemed unnaturally large. Standing in the doorway of the office, his body nearly filled its entire frame. At his feet lay Andrew, his eyes open but not seeing, his blond hair dark with blood. A cruel smile spread over Eden's face. "He died because of you."

Neal wanted to shout, to run, but no sound issued from his mouth and he seemed to be rooted to the spot. His heart began to pound in his chest, and with each beat, the room around him, including Eden and Andrew, faded bit by bit until he was in total darkness. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew this couldn't be real; it must be some kind of nightmare.

It _was_ a nightmare; Neal woke with a start, relieved to find himself in his own bed. But his relief turned quickly to dismay. The room was too bright, it was late; he'd overslept. Peter would be here any minute, and he expected Neal to be ready, and out the door, the moment his car came to a stop at the curb. Neal sprang from the bed just as he heard angry pounding on his door.

Peter was already here, and he was mad. That was not a good way to start any day.

"I'll be right there!" Neal moved quickly through the apartment to the door, and even though he dreaded facing an angry Peter in his boxers, he opened the door. "I'm sorry," he began, hoping to quell Peter's anger, "Give me five-"

Peter grabbed him before he could finish, jerking him out the door onto the landing.

"You're under arrest," he barked, spinning Neal around and shoving him roughly against the wall.

"Wha-Why?" Neal stammered in confusion as Peter pulled his arms behind him. "What did I _do?_ "

"You know what you've done," Peter growled in his ear; he felt cuffs tighten around his wrists. "And now you're going back where you belong."

"Please," Neal pleaded, his face pressed against the wall, "what happened?" He was going back to prison and he didn't know why. "At least let me get _dressed_ first."

Peter didn't respond to his question or request but with one hand on the cuffs and the other on his forearm, pulled him from the wall and turned him around.

Neal felt his breath catch in his throat; he was face to face with Terrence Eden. Terror washed over him, his already racing heart picking up its pace and thumping painfully against his ribcage. This couldn't be; Terrence Eden couldn't be here, not at June's and definitely not with _Peter._ This was all wrong.

"You're mine, remember?" Eden's tone was matter of fact. "You always have been," Eden's eyes moved over Neal as if inspecting a side of beef; Neal felt his face burn in humiliation. "Thank you," Eden continued, looking past Neal to Peter, "for returning my property."

"No, Peter," Neal cried, stepping away from Eden in fear, " _Please,_ I don't want to go with him."

"It's where you belong, Danny," Peter said, pushing him forward. Eden's vice like grip encircled his forearm.

Neal felt his chest begin to tighten in panic. Why would Peter call him that? He wanted to protest, to say he wasn't Danny and he didn't belong with this man but the growing constriction around his pounding heart kept him from doing so. He struggled, both for breath and to free himself from Eden's grasp, but his effort was futile. After a moment, everything began to fade; Eden's face, the landing he was standing on, the banisters of June's staircase. He could hear voices but they were growing distant, and then there was nothing.

He passed out; he didn't remember falling but he must have because he was now lying on his back.

"Look at me," Peter was saying, his voice still sounding far away. But Neal kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to look at Peter or Eden; he didn't want to wake up at all.

Suddenly, Peter's voice was louder, closer. "Dammit Neal, open your eyes and _breathe!_ "

His tone was sharper, more insistent. It was an order and Neal responded in spite of himself. Peter's face loomed above him, his expression tense. Neal needed to talk to him, to make him understand, but the tightness around his chest had squeezed all the air from his lungs.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter wasn't thrilled about climbing into the backseat behind Agent Abernathy but since that was his ride to the airfield he did so without complaint. As they were pulling out of the station, Ramapo County EMS was pulling in. Even though Peter was glad to see they were on task and ready to respond, the sight of the unit still brought a sense of dread.

"It's a two plane hangar," Littleton began, placing his arm on the back of his seat and turning to face Peter. "There's a break area, maintenance room, and bathroom on the ground floor, and above those are three additional rooms, accessed by an open stairway and catwalk. State Police have their vehicles behind the hangar, out of sight from the approach, and have their people in place. Once Eden pulls in, they will have him covered from four different angles."

It sounded simple, but nothing so far had gone that way. "And you're sure he'll pull in?" Peter asked.

"The Black SUV McAllister was in was parked inside, and Eden's going to want to get that car out of sight," Littleton said confidently. "But they have someone in the trees, about a hundred yards to the east. Just in case he doesn't."

"Sniper?" Peter asked.

Agent Littleton smiled, "You know it."

When Agent Abernathy turned from Eagle Valley onto Wintergreen, Littleton placed a call. "We're coming in," he said, then. "Will do.

A minute later, they turned off on a smaller, dirt road and Peter saw the metal hangar. The State Police had done well; the place looked deserted. No one would ever expect that a dozen State Police were lying in wait. Agent Abernathy pulled the car around the hangar and parked next to the four other vehicles there. Multiple phones buzzed as they exited the car. Peter looked down at his phone.

Eden had passed Colonial Avenue in Sloatsburg; ETA seven minutes.

The men moved quickly and entered the side door to the hangar. A single engine plane was there, along with a black SUV. Peter guessed it had been the one June had described to him. They were met by a tall, yet sturdy man with hard eyes and graying hair. Taking no time for introductions, he ushered them into one of the downstairs rooms. The lights were off, and Peter immediately knew why; they could see the hangar through the viewing glass, but no one could see in. It was the perfect place to observe without being seen.

"McAllister and the others are upstairs," he told them. "We have two officers with them. They've received no calls."

"They kept them on site in case Eden reached out to McAllister," Littleton explained. "We didn't want him to call and not get an answer; it might have spooked him."

"And if he called with a change of plans," the officer added, "we wanted to know about it."

"So they've been cooperative?" Peter asked. There hadn't been much information on Eden's partner. Peter had gotten the feeling he was a disgruntled banker Eden had lured to the Darkside.

"Once we told them what they could expect once they were sent upstate for felony kidnapping, they became very cooperative," The officer chuckled. "They're a bunch of computer nerds," he added derisively. "They crumbled like day old cornbread. They'll flip on Eden in a heartbeat for a white collar stint in minimum security."

"Computer nerds, huh?" Agent Littleton sounded amused and even in the poor lighting, Peter saw the officer's eyes widen as he remembered he was addressing two agents of the FBI CyberCrimes Unit.

"Uh," he stammered. "I'm sorry, sir, I just meant-"

"Don't worry about it," Littleton said good-naturedly. "We're used to getting no respect, aren't we Agent Abernathy?"

Before Agent Abernathy could reply, the officer's radio erupted.

"Subject has turned on Wintergreen." Eden was less than a minute away; Neal was less than a minute away. Peter could feel his heart begin to race in anticipation of what the next minutes would hold.

"Everyone on the ready," the officer relayed quietly to his men, glancing over at Agent Littleton. "It's all yours."

Agent Littleton and Agent Abernathy unholstered their weapons, each taking their place on each side of the door as the black impala appeared on the road a few hundred yards to the left. It was moving fairly quickly, dust stirring in its wake. Peter and Jones followed suit, taking the backup positions. The car slowed down as it approached the hangar and then rolled in through the large opening into the hangar bay. It came to a stop only a few dozen feet away. Peter could see two passengers and Eden was behind the wheel.

"I'll be damned," Peter said under his breath when he recognized the face of the other man. It was Mr. Maxwell, the Head of Security at the Danford Building. The hateful, irritated man who had walked him through the robbery. No wonder Neal had sent such a covert message; he had been under surveillance and knew Maxwell would watch the security tapes.

The engine of the car was clicked off. Eden's door opened first, followed a second later by Maxwell's. Before either of them could close their doors, activity ensued simultaneously from all directions. The agents were out the door in a split second.

"FBI! Don't move!" Littleton shouted as they approached the men; State Police Officers poured through the opening behind the Impala, weapons drawn.

"Hands where I can see them!" Peter added as additional officers appeared from behind the SUV, moving in on the two surprised men. Outside, dust boiled on the drive as the Ramapo Police arrived on the scene.

In less than ten seconds, nearly a dozen Agents and State Police surrounded Eden and Maxwell in the hangar, with several more taking aim at them from the catwalk overlooking the hangar bay.

"Hands up!" Littleton instructed sharply. From where he stood, Peter couldn't see Maxwell well enough to determine if he had a weapon but Eden did. It looked like a nine millimeter he had tucked in the waistband of his trousers.

Peter was ready, his aim centered between Eden's hard eyes; just waiting for the man to make even the slightest move for his gun.

"Get them up!" Littleton repeated, his voice ringing through the space. "Above your head."

After only a moment's delay, Peter saw Maxwell's hand go up, but Eden didn't make a move; he held his previous pose, his hand only inches from his weapon.

With so many guns trained on him, Eden knew that one wrong move would end in certain death. Peter guessed he was trying to decide if he wanted to take his chances with a jury or go down in a hail of gunfire. Whatever he was going to do, Peter just wanted him to do it; Neal was still in the trunk, possibly fighting for his life. Every second that ticked away felt like hours.

With almost a sneer at the agents, Eden's hands went up. Seconds later, officers swarmed both men, disarming them and forcing them into prone positions on the hangar floor. Slightly disappointed that Eden hadn't chosen the second option, Peter holstered his weapon and moved across the hanger towards the car. Agent Littleton had Eden on the ground and was in the process of cuffing him when Peter came near. Before anyone could stop him, he landed a solid kick into the man's ribcage. Eden grunted in pain.

"Agent Burke!" Agent Littleton scolded.

"How did that feel, you son of a bitch?" Peter asked as Agent Abernathy grabbed him, pulling him back to prevent further assault. But it was unnecessary; as much as Peter wanted to pummel the man as he lay there, helpless, the way he had pummeled Neal, he didn't have time. He had to get to Neal.

"I'm good," He snapped, shaking himself free of the agent. "Get medical in here." He stepped to the car, reached in through the driver's side door and pressed the trunk release button on the dashboard. The trunk raised obediently, and he moved quickly to the back of the car.

Neal was lying on his back and was unconscious, just as Andrew had said he would be. But the sight of him caused Peter's breath to catch in his throat.

He knew Neal had been beaten; he'd seen his earlier state on the surveillance footage and knew it had only gotten worse from there. But knowing that still didn't prepare him for what he saw. Neal's face was bruised and battered much worse than it had been before. Older bruises had deepened and newer once joined with scrapes and contusions, were in various stages of blue, purple and green. Dried blood was crusted beneath his nose and also covered his cheek and his chin. It had stained his now grungy but once white shirt. The skin that was visible between the bruising and blood was almost translucent. Praying he wasn't too late, Peter felt Neal carotid for a pulse. There was the faintest of flutters beneath his fingers. Jones appeared at his side, his face mirroring what Peter guessed his own expression had been only seconds before; Peter heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Is he...?"

"He has a pulse," Peter said, but his concern was rising, "but I don't think he's breathing. Help me get him out."

He knew that moving Neal could be dangerous; he had no idea what kind of injuries he had sustained, but if he wasn't breathing, there were only moments before irreparable damage would be done. Peter could perform rescue breaths until help arrived, but to do so, he would need him out of the trunk and on the ground. He grabbed Neal beneath his arms and Jones took hold of his legs.

"Okay," Peter said once he had a good grip, "On three, let's ease him down. One, two, three."

When Neal was on the hangar floor, Peter knelt beside him and placed his hand on his chest. He leaned close, both listening and feeling for any indication that he was breathing. After a moment, he felt a slight warmth on his cheek and there were an almost imperceptible rise and fall under his palm. Neal was breathing but just barely; his breaths shallow and alarmingly far apart.

Peter straightened up, eyes going to Neal's battered face.

"Neal," he said, gently tapping Neal's cheek. "Neal, Open your eyes."

They remained closed, but Peter could see the rapid movement of Neal's eyes beneath closed lids. Convinced that on some level Neal could hear him, and was trying to respond, Peter continued.

"I'm _here,_ Neal, you're safe," he reassured. " _Look_ at me."

"He's not breathing, boss," Jones' concern was evident. Peter could hear sirens in the distance; help was minutes away.

"Dammit, Neal," He snapped impatiently, fear underpinning his voice. "Open your eyes and _breathe_!"

His raised voice got a response; the dark eyelashes fluttered. Peter was relieved to see Neal gazing up at him, but the blue eyes were cloudy and breathing still presented a challenge. Peter had been concerned about internal injuries and now, as he watched Neal continue to struggle to breathe, he feared a collapsed lung might be one of them. He was surprised when Neal managed to speak.

"Please, Peter," he whispered breathlessly, his eyes fearful, "don't make me go with him; don't let him take me _back_ there."

Peter and Jones exchanged looks at Neal's strange plea; he was disoriented, frightened and unaware of what was transpiring. Agent Littleton, taking a wide berth around them, had already led Eden out to one of the State Police vehicles. Terrence Eden was finished, but Neal didn't know that; he was still afraid.

Peter had seen fear in Neal's eyes before but only on the rarest of occasions and even then, it was just a flicker before Neal shut it down. Neal didn't often show fear, or hurt, or any other emotion he perceived as weakness. He covered them quickly with a blank look or bright smile, whichever he felt best served his needs at the time. That skill made him an excellent con man, an exceptional CI and a very hard man to read. But in his current condition, he was an open book; the fear in his eyes undisguised. Peter took Neal's hand and, surprised by how cold it was, squeezed it reassuringly.

"I won't, Neal, I promise; I won't let him take you _anywhere_." Peter was relieved to see the EMT Unit pulled up in front of the hangar. Had it only been three minutes?


	29. Chapter 29

_Just a reminder, hurt/comfort is my thing so if you don't like that, don't read this. :) Thanks for all who review or send messages. They help inspire and motivate me._

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"Don't make me go with him," Neal pleaded again, "just send me back to _prison_."

Peter's attempt at reassurance had obviously not registered. He didn't know why such a thought had planted itself in Neal's mind but clearly it had; it was the second time he'd begged him not to make him go with Eden. It was a completely irrational fear; there were no circumstances in which that would ever happen. But of course, Peter reminded himself, Neal was hurt; he'd been beaten and traumatized. He wasn't thinking rationally.

Peter tried again. "Neal, _listen_ ," he urged, squeezing Neal's hand and fixing his eyes on dull but fearful ones. "I _will_ _not_ make you go with Eden, do you understand?"

Before he could get a confirmation, the sound of the EMT's gurney rolling across the hangar floor startled Neal. His body tensed suddenly and he grunted in pain, his eyes darting around the room. His nostrils flared, the ever present wheezing sound increasing with his panic. It was hard to be certain, but Peter thought there was a blue tint to Neal's lips. Desperate to relieve his fears before the medics arrived and ushered him away, Peter placed his hand on Neal's chin. He turned his face gently towards him to regain his lost attention as the medics closed the distance between them.

"Neal, look at me," he persisted. The blue eyes again found his brown ones. "I won't let him take you anywhere," he reiterated slowly, hoping his message would get through this time. "I _promise._ And the only place I'm sending you is to the _hospital._ _"_ He glanced up as the medics arrived, then back to Neal. "You're hurt and these men are here to help you. Tell me you _understand_." Seeing unsensored fear in Neal's eyes was a new experience and Peter didn't like it.

His efforts were rewarded; the apprehension in Neal's eyes faded but was instantly replaced by something even more distressing. Another rarely seen emotion sprang up in the blue eyes, threatening to spill over onto Neal's cheeks. The sudden shift from fear to sorrowful took Peter by surprise. Again, he found himself woefully unprepared for the sight.

He'd seen Neal close to tears a couple times but he'd only seen him break down once, and that had been at another private airport where Neal had watched Kate die. After the blast, Neal had been hysterical with grief and Peter had to physically restrain him to keep him from running into the flames himself. Only moments later the U.S. Marshal's arrived, informing them that Neal's parole agreement had been suspended pending an investigation. It had been an unbelievably cruel thing, but they had taken Neal straight from the tarmac to prison. It still haunted Peter, the way all expression had left Neal's tear streaked face when the Marshals had cuffed him. It was like a curtain closed behind his eyes, cutting him off from the rest of the world. He had shut down.

Peter could understand. Even suffering from severe emotional shock, Neal's instinct for survival had kicked in. Prison was no place to show weakness; no place to cry or mourn. But even after Peter had secured his release, the curtain remained in place. Neal didn't talk about what had happened and when asked, he said he was fine. Of course, there was no way he could be and the shaking hands and shell-shocked look Peter at times observed confirmed that he wasn't. Weeks passed, and then months. Neal did his job and did it well, but he was quiet, withdrawn. He kept his feelings to himself and his emotions in check; right up until the point when the slipped the anklet, bought a gun and went after Garrett Fowler like a mad man.

He still hadn't talked about Kate in any real way and he'd never mentioned his childhood or his time in Chicago. Even when talking about Eden could have saved him from prison, he hadn't spoken a word. Peter suspected that was how Neal dealt with real emotional distress; he ignored it and hoped it went away. Peter could relate. His own coping mechanisms weren't that different, but at least he had a family, and now Elizabeth, to process things with. He didn't have to go through them alone. Who did Neal have? Him? Mozzie? His pickings were pretty thin now and as a kid, they had been even thinner; he had been on his own.

"He said I was his property." Neal's voice was barely audible. Peter thought he was reliving a past encounter with Eden but his next words said otherwise. "And you said I had to go back with him; that I _belonged there_ _."_

That Neal could think he would do such a thing stung but he reminded himself that Neal wasn't thinking clearly. However, the statement explained a lot; his repeated pleading for Peter not to make him go with Eden as well as his sudden, tearful and forlorn expression. Somewhere in his addled mind, he thought Peter had betrayed him; had sided with Eden and was sending him back to Chicago. At first, he had been terrified at the prospect but now he just seemed heartbroken by it.

The physical abuse Neal had suffered was evident but having read up on Terrence Eden, Peter knew he was skilled at inflicting another kind of abuse as well. One that didn't leave bruises but was probably even more damaging. Neal had no doubt been subjected to that as well as the beatings; there was no telling what the man had told him over the past two days and in his current state, he wasn't able to distinguish between the truth and Eden's lies. Peter knew there was no point in trying to reason with him.

"I would never say that Neal," Peter assured him gently, "and I would never send you away." All Peter had to offer was honesty.

He hoped it was relief he saw in Neal's eyes before they closed but he wasn't convinced. The brief exchange over, he released Neal's hand and got to his feet, allowing the medics to do their jobs. They went to work immediately as Peter and Jones looked on.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Stay with us, Mr. Caffrey," one said as he began the assessment of Neal's condition. "Open those eyes for me."

He hadn't asked Neal's name but Peter knew they had already been briefed; Agent Littleton had made sure they had the pertinent facts.

Neal tried to obey the request but only managed to keep his eyes open a moment before they closed again. Further prompting rendered no results.

"You moved him?" the medic asked, opening the equipment box and taking out a stethoscope. Peter guessed one of those pertinent facts had been the way Neal would be arriving; in the trunk of a car.

"We had to," Peter explained, sensing disapproval. "He wasn't _breathing._ "

"Yeah, he's cyanotic," the medic observed, placing the ear tips in his ear. "Start him on oxygen and check his O2 levels." He told his partner as he placed the stethoscope on Neal's chest and listened intently. "I'm not getting much from his left lung," he said after a moment. "We could be dealing with a partial pneumothorax. Got his sats?"

"85%," the other reported. "Pulse is 110; respiration 28 and shallow. Skin is pale and clammy."

"Onset of shock," the man replied. "Check his pressure."

"How's he doing?" Peter was startled when Agent Littleton spoke at his side. He hadn't even noticed his arrival.

"They say he's in shock," Peter told him, "and he's having a hard time breathing." One of the medics slipped a blood pressure cuff on Neal's arm as the other cut away the bloody shirt. Neal's torso was as black and blue as his face. Peter felt his temper rise. "I think that son of a bitch kicked him until he punctured a lung."

"Look at this." The medic examining Neal's midsection was pressing tentatively on a specific area of Neal's discolored side. "Looks like internal bleeding, possibly his spleen." He glanced up at Neal's face. "He might be hypovolemic; We need to push fluids and get him transported."

"But his pressure's high," His partner commented with a frown. It must not have been the reading they were expecting.

"High?" the man repeated in surprise, confirming Peter's supposition. "How high?"

"One sixty over ninety-two and I checked it twice."

"Agent Littleton," one of the officers searching Eden's car called out. "We've found something."

"Get a shot of it, bag and tag it, then," Littleton replied impatiently, his attention on the ongoing efforts of the men administering to Neal.

But the officer disregarded the order and approached instead. "Sir, I think this might be important."

"What is it?" Littleton asked. The officer held up two items in his gloved hands; a syringe and a vial.

"The vial says _Ketamine Hydrochloride, 75mg,"_ the officer supplied. "and it's empty."

Peter was familiar with Ketamine. It was a veterinary anesthetic used recreationally by some for its dissociative effects, but being both odorless and tasteless, it was also slipped to unsuspecting victims as a date rape drug. It worked fast, rendering the recipient compliant, unresisting, and with little memory of what had happened to them.

"They drugged him." Peter glanced towards the car where Terrence Eden was still waiting to be transported, feeling his own blood pressure elevate. No wonder Neal was unable to process or think rationally.

"Ketamine?" The medic had heard the exchange between the men behind him and turned with the question, eyes falling on the items in the officer's hand. "Did they _give_ him that?"

"There's a good chance they did," Agent Littleton replied, glancing at Peter, "Probably to control him during the ride."

From what Peter knew of the drug, if Neal had been injected before they left the warehouse he would have never had a conversation with Andrew. He wouldn't have been able to tell him how to get out of the trunk or how to reach Peter. It had probably happened after the boy's escape. Peter guessed Eden hadn't wanted any additional unpleasant surprises before he reached his destination and had dosed Neal to ensure that none occurred.

"Well that would do it," the medic commented, turning back to his patient, "especially at that dosage."

"Ketamine would explain the high BP reading as well as the tachycardia," His partner stated. He looked at Peter. "You talked to him; how was he? Was he lucid, aware of his surroundings?"

"No," Peter replied with a firm shake of the head, recalling the short interaction he had had with Neal. "He wasn't making sense; he was confused and upset and I couldn't get him to understand that everything was okay; that he was safe."

"A dosage that high not only initially immobilizes a person but it causes marked dissociation as well," the medic informed them as he worked. "Some have what they categorize as out of body experiences, while others suffer anxiety, paranoia, and even hallucinations. We won't know how the drug is affecting him until he starts coming out of it."

Peter knew how it was affecting Neal; he was anxious and hallucinating. That was why he had a memory of something that had never happened.

"We need to transport him as soon as possible," the medic said to his partner. "We'll start the fluids in route."

The gurney was collapsed to floor level and the two men transferred Neal onto it, the movement eliciting no reaction from him at all. Once it was back in its upright position, one medic began pushing Neal toward the waiting unit and the other collected their supplies. He reached down, snapped the equipment box closed, then lifted it.

"I have to report in," Littleton said as the medic moved to join his partner. "What can I say his condition is?"

"We're classifying him as critical," the man replied, "In addition to a partially collapsed lung, he has internal injuries with possible hemorrhage. The Ketamine overdose complicates matters but they'll be able to address that at GSM."

"GSM?" Jones asked as Neal was loaded into the back of the Ramapo County Emergency Service unit.

"Good Samaritan Medical Center," Littleton supplied. "It's ten minutes away."

"Can I ride in with him?" Peter told himself that he needed to be there when Neal came around to make sure he didn't do anything reckless; no matter what his physical condition, a desperate, paranoid Neal would be a force to be reckoned with. But the truth of the matter was that he didn't want Neal waking up frightened and alone; he wanted to be there for him.

The medic looked at him in surprise. "That's against regulations, sir."

Before Peter could make his case, Agent Littleton made his own.

"Agent Littleton," he said authoritatively, flashing his badge in the medic's face. "I am in charge of this investigation." Peter wondered if that's how he came across when he did that? High-handed and overbearing? "Mr. Caffrey is a material witness and I'm placing him under _Federal protection_. Agent Burke _will_ accompany him to the hospital. Is that clear?"

Agent Littleton did high-handed and overbearing surprisingly well.

"Yes sir," the medic quickly acceded, "very much so." He glanced at Peter. "You'll have to ride up front, sir; with all the equipment, there's no room back here."

"Not a problem," Peter replied. The medic crawled into the back with Neal.

"Mr. Caffrey is a Federal witness," he relayed to the driver, "Agent Burke will be riding in with us."

Agent Littleton closed the doors to the unit. "That works as long as they don't ask _what_ division of the FBI I represent," Littleton said with a grin.

"I know," Peter replied, stepping around the Unit, "CyberCrimes gets no respect."

 _"Exactly."_

But they had his; or at least, Agent Littleton did.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

Once Neal was securely in place, the EMS Unit left the airfield. Progress wasn't rapid at first since the long drive was not paved, but once they turned onto Wintergreen, their speed increased. The medic up front radioed in, apprising the hospital of Neal's condition. He rattled off the list of vital signs followed by field observations which included extensive blunt force trauma to head, chest and abdomen, respiratory distress, and possible ruptured spleen with hemorrhage. The medic also informed them about the possible dose of Ketamine Neal had been injected with.

The ETA to Good Samaritan Medical Center was nine minutes, but less than five minutes into the journey, just after they had turned off Eagle Valley Road onto Orange Avenue, a commotion rose in the back of the unit. Neal had awakened.

"Calm down, Mr. Caffrey," the medic's voice rang out.

Previously there had been no words exchanged between him and his patient. The medic had hooked Neal up to the monitors and started the IV. Unconscious, Neal had been complacent during the process, but that was no longer the case. He had surfaced again and was no longer feeling cooperative. In fact, it was just the opposite. Peter looked back to see Neal and the medic engaged in battle; Neal intent on removing the oxygen mask from his face and the Medic intent on stopping him.

"We are here to help," the Medic told him firmly, grabbing Neal's errant hand as it again went to his face to dislodge the mask. "You need to keep that on."

"I have to get up," Neal countered, continuing to struggle, his voice verging on hysteria. "I have to get _away_."

Peter didn't know if Neal thought he was still being held by Eden or was being sent back to Chicago or if the drug in his system had produced some a new terror. He didn't know whether he was hallucinating or just plain paranoid, but either way, his anxiety was high. He continued to try disengage himself from the mask, the monitor wires, and even the IV in his arm. Each time the Medic intercepted one hand, the other grabbed for a different encroachment.

"Mr. Caffrey," the medic's voice grew more forceful, "You need to keep still."

"Let me _go!_ " Neal's voice was no longer verging on hysteria; it had arrived and brought with it a burst of renewed energy. As his struggle increased, so did his vital signs. Alarms began to sound.

Realizing the situation was escalating and not declining, the driver asked if he needed to pull over. Before his partner could answer, Peter unbuckled his seat belt and crawled across the center console. This was why he had come; why he was here. Even though it was a tight fit, he maneuvered between the narrow bench and Neal's stretcher.

"If you'll keep him still," the medic told him, "I will give him something to calm him down."

Peter had come to help but holding down an injured and panicked Neal after everything he had been through wasn't what he'd had in mind. But the medic was right; Neal was likely to cause himself further injury if his activities weren't curtailed. Peter nodded his consent, and the two of them traded off. The Medic opened the drug cabinet to get the sedative while Peter held Neal's hands tightly in his own.

"Neal," he said urgently, as Neal pulled against his grip, "Calm down and stop _fighting_ me."

Something in his voice reached Neal because his eyes stopped darting about and settled on Peter's face and his hands stilled.

"Peter?" Neal asked uncertainly as his breath, coming fast, fogged up the mask on his face. "Is that really you?"

Fear had replaced the earlier hurt he'd seen in Neal's eyes, and now confusion replaced the fear. But at least he was no longer struggling.

"It's really me, Neal," Peter assured him, loosening his grip but not letting go in case the lull in the storm was only a fleeting thing. "You're going to be fine, but you have to stay calm."

"But how can you _be_ here?" Neal seemed genuinely puzzled by his presence. Peter wondered where Neal thought _here_ was; if he was aware of his surroundings. What was going on in his drug altered reality?

The medic had the shot prepared and had taken hold of the IV line, but hesitated on administering it. The hospital was just minutes away, and Peter guessed he'd rather not add lorazepam to the list of drugs his patient had been given if not completely necessary. For the moment, at least, Neal was still. Peter lowered Neal's hands, placing them beside him on the stretcher.

"You told Andrew to call me, remember?" Peter prompted, keeping his hand on Neal's left one as a gesture of reassurance. He wondered how much of the past hours Neal remembered. One of the effects of Ketamine was memory loss.

Neal hadn't only told Andrew to call him; he'd said _Please send Peter._ He might have forgotten that but Peter never would.

"Andrew?" Neal first repeated the name as if it didn't register, but then, after a moment, his eyes widened. "The _boy._ " The memory brought fresh distress. "He said he'd kill him, he'd kill June and Mozzie," Neal again grew anxious, "and he _would,_ Peter, you don't _know_ him. I _had_ to do what he wanted." Neal sounded like a kid in trouble trying his best to explain his way out of it.

Peter squeezed his hand. "I _know,_ Neal," he assured him, "I know you had no choice, but it's over now. Eden's been arrested; he's going away for a long time. Just take it easy, okay?"

Neal seemed to relax, but his dark eyes were still troubled. "I was afraid no one would find me," Neal whispered, "that he'd take me back and I'd just _disappear._ "

"That would never happen," Peter told him, "You know I'll always find you."

Neal's eyes closed, his words mumbled, so quiet Peter almost missed them. "I hope so."

The statement confirmed that Neal was still under the influence of a mind-altering drug. To date, _I hope so_ had never been Neal's response to that particular claim.

Satisfied that his patient was indeed under control, the Medic replaced the syringe in the cabinet as the unit pulled up beneath the Hospital's emergency entrance overhang.

"I was sure I'd have to sedate him, but you calmed him down; put him at ease," the medic said, reaching down to open the door. "You did good, Agent Burke."

The driver exited the unit and moved to the back, and the two of them removed the stretcher and rolled it through the sliding doors into the Emergency Room. Peter followed them only as far as the staging area, where he was left, and Neal was taken through the double doors and into the treatment area. Watching the doors swing shut behind Neal, Peter felt helpless, something he didn't like at all. He approached the intake nurse and introduced himself with a flash of his badge.

"Peter Burke, FBI," he said, "I came in with Neal Caffrey, and I need to be updated as soon as possible about his condition."

The nurse looked at the badge, but then, a somewhat skeptical look crossed his face. Peter followed his gaze to his Brighton Baron's Sweatshirt. He'd forgotten he wasn't in his usual, more official, attire.

"I've been undercover," he explained, nodding towards the double doors Neal had just been rolled through. "And so has _he._ Please let me know the minute there is any word on his condition."

"They're taking him for tests now to determine the extent of his injuries," he said, "as soon as they are done with his initial evaluation, I will have the attending come out and talk to you. Just have a seat, Agent Burke."

The nurse hadn't specified where he was to take a seat, so instead of exiting to the Emergency waiting room, Peter found a chair outside one of the treatment rooms. At least that way, he was in direct view of the intake nurse and anyone came through would see him waiting. He knew how _out of sight; out of mind_ worked and he planned to stay in sight.

It felt like hours, but it was just over twenty minutes until someone came to speak to him. He'd been watching expectantly each time the doors Neal had disappeared through opened, but up until now, each time he'd been disappointed. This time, the woman who came through walked with purpose. With a white coat and stethoscope around her neck, she looked like an _attending_ to Peter. She stopped at the desk and spoken a moment to the intake nurse. Peter saw the nurse nod in his direction.

He stood as the woman approached. "Agent Burke?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I'm Agent Burke. How's Neal?"

Her smile was slight. "I'm Dr. Duvall." In his haste, he hadn't even let her introduce herself. "As you know," she began, gesturing for him to sit and then taking a seat beside him. "Mr. Caffrey suffered numerous blunt-force injuries to his head, face, chest, and abdomen. The most serious of these are a sizeable tear in his spleen, which has caused significant internal bleeding, and a partially collapsed lung. These injuries will have to be surgically repaired; Dr. Riley and Dr. Allison will be doing the surgery as soon as they get Mr. Caffrey prepped."

"Two surgeons?"

"Dr. Allison is a Thoracic Surgeon, Agent Burke," she told him. "He specializes in lung repair, and since he was available, Dr. Riley asked him to assist."

Two was better than one, Peter supposed. "So what's the prognosis?" he asked. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Both Dr. Riley and Dr. Allison are very good; there is every reason to be optimistic," she assured him. "But as Mr. Caffrey's doctor, Agent Burke, I'd like a little more information about the circumstances of his injuries. I was told he was the victim of a violent crime, but of course, I knew that the minute I saw him."

Peter gave her a very basic overview of the events of the past two days, beginning with Neal's kidnapping outside his home to his rescue in the hanger. He kept his information focused on what he knew about how Neal's injuries had occurred and didn't elaborate on the why.

"That explains the Ketamine in his system," she said. "The most recent dose was administered an hour so ago, but his blood levels indicate he'd been dosed earlier as well."

"They probably gave it to him when they took him," Peter commented. "To keep him from putting up a fight."

"Forty-eight hours would be about right," she agreed. "Are you aware of some of the possible side effects of Ketamine, Agent Burke?"

"Yes, the Medic mentioned them." Anxiety, paranoia, hallucinations. He was aware; he'd seen Neal experience them.

"Given Mr. Caffrey's recent traumatic experiences," she said. "He may have a difficult time acclimating once he regains consciousness. He may be confused, anxious, paranoid, violent even. I just want you to be prepared for that possibility."

"That's why I'm here," he said. "I can keep him calm. I did it on the way in. Just let me be there when he wakes up."

"Brad mentioned you had a calming effect on Mr. Caffrey, and that might come in handy, but it is against protocol to allow non-medical personnel into recovery, Agent Burke," she smiled knowingly. "Even when protecting a _Federal Witness._ But I will let you in the minute he's moved into ICU."

Dr. Duvall got to her feet, and he did so as well. "Thanks for your time, Dr. Duvall," Peter said.

"And thanks for _yours,_ Agent Burke. The more I know about your friend, the better I will be able to care for him."

His friend, she said, not his _witness_. Dr. Duvall didn't miss much. "How long until it's out of his system?" He asked, "Until he's back to himself?"

"The disassociative effects wear off quickly," she said, "but pronounced emotional instability can last several hours; nightmares and flashbacks can occur for several _days_."

Emotional insecurity, nightmares, and flashbacks? After coming face to face with a man he'd tried so hard to forget, Neal would probably have suffered from those without having been dosed with Ketamine.

"The ICU is on the fourth floor, Agent Burke," she told him. "Just take the B elevator and follow the signs to the ICU Waiting Area. The surgery will take about an hour and fifteen minutes to complete, barring any complications, so you have time to grab a bite to eat before you go up. As soon as he's out of surgery, Dr. Riley will be out to talk to you."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

He went by the Hospital Coffee Shop before taking the elevator up to the fourth-floor. Once he'd found the waiting area, and a seat, he placed a call. He knew that Elizabeth would be anxiously awaiting for word and after the stress of the past hours, he really needed to hear her voice.

"Hey hon," he said when she answered the phone on the first ring. "We got Neal and Terrence Eden is in custody."

"Thank goodness!" He could hear her relaying the news; she had not been waiting alone.

"Is Mozzie there?"

"Yes," she answered. "He's been here since lunch." Of course, Mozzie would be there; where else would he be? "Is Neal with you now?" she asked. "Is he okay?"

He'd given the good news first, and now reluctantly, he gave the not so good.

"Eden and his men were pretty rough on him, El," he told her. "He has some internal injuries; they've taken him back now to prep him for surgery."

"Surgery?" she repeated sharply, her concern growing. "How bad is he, Peter, what did they _do_ to him?"

Peter relayed what Dr. Duvall had told him about Neal's injuries and his impending surgery, emphasizing that his prognosis was good.

"What aren't you telling me?" She asked when he'd finished. "Something else is wrong; I can hear it in your voice."

He had made an effort to sound positive as he'd spoken but he couldn't keep anything from Elizabeth; he had a bad feeling. He was fairly confident that Neal's physical injuries would be taken care of by the surgical team, but he was more worried about his mental state. Not only now, but over the next several days. Months, even.

Elizabeth listened as he shared his concerns, giving her the more worrisome details of Neal's condition. He told her about the drug Neal had been given, his state of mind when he'd found him, and the fact that he was likely to face emotionally difficult times ahead. He talked and talked, telling her about Neal's fears, his tears, as well as the way he'd finally managed to calm him during the ride to the hospital.

"It was awful," Peter said quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose, "seeing him scared and upset like that. I didn't know what to do."

"But you _did_ know what to do," she reminded him. "You stayed with him, talked to him and gave him comfort. It's all you _can_ do right now, Peter; just be there for him, so he doesn't have to go through it alone."

He could do that; in fact, that is why he'd insisted on coming. But he wasn't just worried about the hours ahead as the drug worked its way out of Neal's system. He was worried about what would come afterward. Neal would have to give a statement. He'd have to go over everything that had happened including the physical assaults he'd been subjected to while Eden had held him prisoner. Having suffered at Eden's hands when he was a kid, this recent abuse had probably been as emotionally damaging as it had been physical. Not that Neal would ever admit such a thing, but there was no way this hadn't wreaked havoc on him.

And this was just the beginning; more difficult times for Neal were coming. Terrence Eden's appearance had exposed his past in Chicago. A past he'd been desperate to forget but now would have to remember. He wouldn't have a choice. After all, there was no statute of limitations on human trafficking.

Peter wanted to be there for Neal but he doubted he would be given the chance. Once Neal's condition improved and he was lucid, his defenses would be in full force. He'd protect himself, he'd close down; become an emotional fortress. Peter could almost see the curtain falling behind his eyes, just the way it had the day Kate had died. It was hard to be there for someone who wouldn't let you in.

Neal had pulled back that day; he'd withdrawn and suffered alone. But then, he didn't know any other way _to_ suffer.


	31. Chapter 31

_Sorry for the delay and the shortness of the chapter. Things have been a little crazy. That real life thing sometimes gets in the way of fun. Thanks for reading and reviewing._

 **Chapter Thirty-One**

 _Just be there for him._ That was Elizabeth's answer to his dilemma.

Peter wanted to be there for Neal but it wasn't that simple. Nothing was ever simple with Neal. Especially trying to figure out what was going on in that brilliant mind of his on any given day. Neal was skilled at hiding things, from bank accounts and assets to underlying motives and private agendas. He wasn't one to tip his hand on a case or a con, and he didn't tip it on the subject of his feelings, either. When asked, he was always fine and could cover almost any emotion with a smile.

"Neal isn't an easy person to _be there for,_ El," Peter put forth. "You know how he is, he doesn't _want_ help."

"Everyone _wants_ help, Peter," she replied, "some people just have a hard time accepting it. Think about it," she pressed. "Look what happened when Neal accepted help from Terrence Eden. After what you've learned about that man, I'd think you'd better understand why Neal has _trust_ issues."

Peter had always chalked Neal's trust issues up to the fact that, as a conman, no one knew better than he how untrustworthy people could be. But Elizabeth was right. The information about Neal's youth in Chicago did put his issues in a new light. Trust was a fragile thing and Neal's had been broken early. What situation had he found himself in at such a young age that made him a mark for Eden? Was he a runaway, homeless on the streets of Chicago? Whatever he was, he had been alone, even then.

What had the report from Chicago said? _Who ever he was, no one was looking for him_.

He and Elizabeth had often discussed the lack of people, friends or family, in Neal's life but again, he had attributed that to his career choice. But that, too, warranted a second look. Neal had been alone before he'd been pulled into a life of crime. In fact, that was probably how he'd fallen under Eden's control. So many of Neal's characteristics, personality traits Peter thought were developed as tools of the trade he now realized were products of a difficult youth. They predated Neal criminal career and had began as survival techniques.

What did Neal always say? _Work with what you've got_. And that's what he'd done.

"I do," he admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired, and even though he had a hard road ahead of him, Neal had a harder one. "I'm just worried. To build the cases against Eden, they're going to want to know everything about Neal's past with him."

"He was just a kid then, Peter," Elizabeth replied. "Surely he can't be held responsible for anything Eden made him do."

Elizabeth knew Neal likely had worked as a member of Eden's crew but she didn't know about how he'd extricated himself or about the letter he'd written. She didn't know that Neal could have used his information against Eden to strike a deal for immunity, but had chosen not to.

"He won't be," he told her. "But that's not the part I'm worried about. They're going ask him a lot of questions about how Eden recruited him and what his role in the organization was."

"But as long as he can't incriminate himself-," she stopped as what he said sunk in. "How he was _recruited_?" She echoed. "You're afraid this is going to bring up unpleasant memories for him, aren't you?"

"Yes I am," he admitted, "and I don't have to tell you how well Neal deals with _unpleasant_."

"But after everything that man's done to him, it might be worth reliving some bad memories to send him to prison."

"That depends on the memories, El," he replied. "Neal could have sent Eden to prison, and maybe even skated on the bond forgery, if he'd said something when I arrested him. But he _didn't;_ he never said a word. That tells me they're bad enough that he doesn't want to go there."

He remembered the desperate look in Neal's eyes as he'd pleaded with him not to make him go with Eden. The memories _were_ bad, Peter knew.

"But he's going to have to now, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he's not going to have a choice. He's a key witness."

Neal would have to cooperate with the FBI and answer questions, not just about the latest crime Eden had forced him to commit but about previous ones as well. They had the letter, of course, which very clearly summarized his work for Eden in Chicago, but they'd want to know more. They would want the whole story; how he'd come to work for Eden, what the arrangements had been, how he'd been compensated and who else had been involved. The questions wouldn't just be about crimes this time; they'd be about him.

"Then it's good you're there. If it's going to bring up a lot of bad memories, he's going to need a friend."

"He doesn't see me as a friend," Peter protested. "He sees me as his _handler._ If this is as hard as I think it will be, he's going to shut everyone out; especially _me_. Just like he did when Kate died."

Peter wanted to be there for Neal after Kate's death but Neal wouldn't let him be. He had insisted on dealing with his loss alone and in his own way. He hadn't opened up to anyone, not Mozzie and certainly not his FBI handler. But Peter understood why Neal hadn't let him in. He had never exactly been sympathetic to Neal's emotional distress where Kate Moreau was concerned. In fact, once he found Neal's weakness on that front he'd used it against him. Realizing a heartbroken Neal was seeking Kate, he'd set a trap and used her as bait to catch him. Four years later, out of prison on work release, Neal was convinced Kate was in danger. But Peter kept the pressure on Neal to perform, to help the FBI close cases. He hadn't offered a sympathetic ear or shown any compassion for Neal's distress. That was until Kate had died in front of them. His compassion then, and his sympathy, was enormous and sincere. But he could see why, to Neal, it was too little too late.

"But the two of you have come a long way since then," Elizabeth insisted. "You're just going to have to keep reaching out to him, Peter."

Peter hated to crawl out on the limb of emotional support only to have Neal saw it off. "I'll try but its hard to reach out when he won't reach back."

"I know, but you have to be patient. He has trust issues and with good reasons," She said. "He probably thought Eden cared about him but then he found out all he cared about was what he could do for him."

Her words were meant to encourage but instead they made his face sting. Was that not the entire basis of his and Neal's relationship? What Neal could do for the FBI? For _him_?

As before, even across the miles and over the phone lines, Elizabeth felt his unease. "Peter," she rushed quickly, "You and Neal, it's not the same thing. He _knows_ that."

It wasn't the same and, consciously, he was sure Neal knew that. But subconsciously he had to feel similarities. Terrence Eden had, after all, been his handler too.

"No, it isn't," Peter agreed. "Eden used a kid to commit crimes and I use a convicted felon to _solve_ them, but the fact is, we both _use_ him."

"But you _care_ about him," she reminded him, "and you have his best interests at heart. Eden never did; he only saw Neal as a tool to be used."

"He's a CI, El," Peter reminded her, "the definition of which is an asset; a _tool to be used._ "

That was what Agent Rice had told Neal when he had worked for her, and even though he'd never put it quite that way, Peter knew he often sent the same message.

"But he's more than that or you wouldn't be sitting there, worried about the emotional toll this case is going to take on him."

"That's true but Neal doesn't know that. I try to keep things simple, El. I tell him my job is to be his handler, not his friend."

"Well, now he _needs_ a friend, Peter," she said. "So you have to show him you can be both."

Peter wasn't convinced that was possible; to be both friend and handler. It seemed that most of the time, one role precluded the other. "And how do I do that?"

Elizabeth kept to her original advice on dealing with Neal, not only as he worked through the drugs in his system but as he worked through the demons in his past.

 _"Just be there for him."_

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The call to Elizabeth ended, and Peter was amazed at how slowly time was passing as he sipped his cooling coffee. He thought about calling Agent Littleton or Jones to check in but he knew they were in the process of transporting their suspects and until the surgery was over and he'd spoken with the doctor, he didn't have new information to pass on to them regarding Neal's condition. So although it might kill a little time, a call now was premature.

Eden and the others would be taken back to the Federal Building in New York to be processed, and after that, there would be a discussion to determine the order of precedence the cases would take. Many entities could charge Eden; two divisions of the Federal Government as well as the States of Illinois and New York. Violent Crimes, with the Trafficking and RICO charges, would probably win the day. After the Federal Government was finished, the States could have their shot at prosecution if they so desired. The Dual Sovereignty Doctrine allowed for Eden to be tried and convicted in both a state and federal court, even for the same crimes, with the sentences running either concurrently or consecutively. No matter how it added up, Eden would be in prison for life.

"Neal Caffrey?" Peter looked up when the name was called. A man dressed in blue scrubs and wearing a mesh cap over his graying hair had appeared from around the corner, eyes moving over the dozen or so people who were occupying the waiting room.

Peter got to his feet. "Yes?"

The man approached and extended his hand. "I'm Dr. Riley."

"Agent Peter Burke," Peter replied, shaking the man's hand firmly. "FBI."

"Yes," the doctor said, gesturing to the seat Peter had just vacated. "I spoke with Dr. Duvall; I'm aware of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Caffrey's injuries. Sit, please."

Peter did as he asked and the doctor, pulling up a nearby chair, took a seat himself. "I understand he is a federally protected witness?"

There was no official order of protection on Neal but Agent Littleton _had_ told the medics he was and Peter saw no reason to contradict him.

"He _is_ a key witness in two rather large Federal cases." That was true. "How his he?"

"He came through the surgery well," he informed him. leaning forward. "Mr. Caffrey suffered numerous fractured ribs and the damage to his lung was caused when a fragment from his ninth rib punctured the pleural sac. Dr. Allison was able to repair the damage and reinflate the lung." Numerous fractured ribs. Again Peter felt anger at the thoughts of Neal being kicked as he'd lain helpless on the floor. "There was also damage to his liver and his spleen," The doctor continued. "The liver lacerations were only grade II, however the tear to the spleen was more substantial and had to be repaired. But as I said, the surgery went well; we experienced no complications." Dr. Riley stood up. "It will take him some time to heal, but your witness should make a full recovery."

"Thank you, Doctor," Peter replied, getting to his feet as well. "When can I see him?"

"He'll be in recovery at least an hour, maybe more," Dr. Riley told him. "But once he's stabilized and awake, he'll be moved into the ICU. You'll be able to see him then."

"Will they call me?" Peter asked, "Once he's up here?"

The doctor motioned for Peter to follow him. He stepped to the double doors that accessed the ICU and pressed the call button.

"Yes?" the voice responded.

"This is Dr. Riley, buzz me in, Janet."

The doors opened. "Janet," Dr. Riley said. "This is Agent Burke of the FBI; get his number and make sure he gets a call the minute Neal Caffrey is brought up. "

"Certainly, sir," she responded. The doctor gave Peter a curt nod and left them, and Peter stepped up to the desk.

"Your number sir?" The nurse asked. Peter stepped up to the desk and provided the nurse his number.

She took it down, then looked up at him. "And your relationship to the patient?"

His pause was slight. " _Friend."_


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

After Peter had given the nurse his contact information, he left the ICU the same way he had entered but instead of returning to the waiting room he made his way down the hall to the elevator. With at least another hour of waiting in front of him, he thought he might as well stretch his legs and get a bite to eat. On the way down to the hospital cafeteria, he placed a quick call to Elizabeth. He needed to let her know the surgery had gone well and that Neal would be moved into the ICU within the next couple of hours. It was just half past three.

"I'm not sure I'll make it home tonight," he told her at the end of the update. "Neal's still in recovery, and I was told that the effects of the Ketamine would take a few hours to wear off. I don't want to leave him until I'm sure he's thinking clearly."

He didn't have to tell Elizabeth what could happen if an _unclear_ _thinking_ Neal was left to his own devices. Injured or not, fueled by fear or paranoia, his first instinct would be to run away. He decided it best not to mention that Neal was apt to experience pronounced emotional instability, nightmares, and flashbacks. She was already worried enough.

"I understand," she said. "I think it's good if you stay. There will at least be a recliner in the room; try to sleep some if you can. Have them bring you a pillow and a blanket; it's chilly in the hospital. And be sure to get something to eat, too. Man cannot live by coffee alone."

"I'm on my way to the cafeteria now," he chuckled at her list of instructions. "I take it Mozzie's still there?" Like before, he had heard her relaying information as Peter had provided it.

"He's been worried, Peter, like the rest of us," she justified. "But now that Neal's out of surgery, maybe he'll at least sit down; he's been pacing like a caged animal all afternoon."

Peter had witnessed Mozzie's nervous pacing before. Not one to sit still under the best of circumstances, hours of waiting for news about Neal would understandably make him more flighty than usual. Mozzie would have driven him crazy with his endless, nervous prattle but somehow, Elizabeth found the man entertaining.

"El," Peter ventured, lowering his voice although no one was around to overhear. "He's been there all day; has he _said_ anything to you about Neal's past?"

Given what they had learned about Terrence Eden's role in Neal's life, Peter knew the topic had to have come up at some point during the day. He believed Mozzie when he'd said he didn't know about Eden specifically, but he wondered if Neal had ever confided anything to him about his childhood or teen years. Surely he'd said something to _someone_.

"No," Elizabeth replied, reciprocating the hushed tone. He could just imagine her glancing conspiratorily at her guest. "and I _asked_ him. He said Neal doesn't talk about his past. At _all._ He's never mentioned home, family, or anything about his life before he came to New York. It's like you said before; Neal doesn't want to go there."

Neal hadn't used his past in Chicago as a bargaining chip for his freedom and he hadn't told Mozzie, but a thought suddenly occurred to Peter; had he shared his past with _Kate?_ Had he told her about his family, or how he'd ended up on the streets of Chicago as a teenager? Had he told her about working for Eden or the beating that left him black and blue? If he'd ever told anyone, it would have been her. She was the love of his life.

The possibility of that sent pain through Peter's heart. He had never thought Kate had Neal's best interests at heart; he felt she exploited his affection to her own ends. But Neal had been enamored with her, and Peter wondered if it was because he'd shared something with her that he had never shared with anyone else.

He thought back to his initial capture of Neal Caffrey. Kate had left him, and he had been so frantic to find her, to talk to her, that after three years of evading the authorities, of evading _him_ , he was careless. Realizing Kate was Neal's weakness, Peter had used her as bait to catch him. He set a trap and Neal had walked right into it. The next time Kate broke Neal's heart he was so desperate to find her and reconcile, he made another costly mistake; he escaped from prison three months short of his release date. Once Peter had surmised the motivation for Neal's escape it was easy to anticipate his actions. Peter remembered how desolate Neal had been when he'd found him in Kate's abandoned apartment, empty wine bottle in hand. He would have had time to have fled the building after discovering he's missed Kate, but he hadn't bothered. He had just sat there, waiting. Waiting for Agent Peter Burke to track him down and send him back to prison.

Peter had told him it had been a stupid thing to do, that he'd get four more years tacked onto his sentence. And Neal had answered, _I don't care._

It had been more of a surrender than a capture and not just a physical one but a mental one as well.

That was the first time Peter felt pity for Neal Caffrey. He hadn't felt anything but elation during the first arrest. After years of cat and mouse, it had been very rewarding. He had beaten his greatest opponent; won his biggest challenge. After three years, he enjoyed the stale, green lollipop, not because of its flavor but because of what it represented. _Victory._

During the trial, Neal had sat at the defendant's table looking as innocent as a school boy. He'd flashed his smile at the jury, especially the ladies, and kept a pleasantly detached expression on his face throughout the proceedings. In spite of all the charges against him, in the end only one stuck; Bond Forgery. Neal had shown little emotion when the verdict was delivered, and even less when the sentence, which came as a shock to Peter, was read. It was a harsher punishment than Peter had expected for a first timer, but Neal seemed to take it in stride. Peter hadn't felt pity that day because, unshaken by the outcome, Neal didn't merit any. Neal Caffrey was entirely too cocky for his own good. Some time in prison might teach him a lesson, make him wise up and make better decisions in the future.

But now, in retrospect, Peter realized that Neal's behavior during the trial was textbook _Neal in distress._ His smile, his aloofness, his unaffected demeanor; it was the same as it had been after Kate died. Had he known to look, he bet he'd have noticed that Neal kept his hands out of sight or placed on the table to keep them from shaking and that the smile on his face never reached his eyes. Neal had even run his hand through his hair a couple of times; once when Peter was on the stand. He'd thought then it was part of his charming boy act, but now he'd come to recognized it as a sign that Neal was stressing. Neal had been upset and probably terrified at the prospect of going to prison. After all, bad things happened to pretty boys and Neal was definitely one of those. He _had_ been shaken; probably to his core. He just hadn't allowed anyone to see it.

Four years later, the _second_ time Peter caught Neal Caffrey, he felt no thrill like he had the first. He just felt sad that such a smart young man was facing four more years in prison. Eight years of his life gone when, in Peter's opinion, he should have only gotten eighteen months with good behavior in the first place. It was there, in Kate's apartment, that Peter first saw Neal's well-crafted facade slip, and instead of a cocky young criminal, he saw a heartbroken boy.

Had he told Kate about his childhood, about working for Terrence Eden? Whether he had or not, Neal had loved her and wanted a life with her. If he hadn't confided in her about his past, he must have hoped that one day he would be able to. Then someone would know the whys and the wherefores of Neal Caffrey; someone would understand. Everyone needed that. Even Neal Caffrey.

If Neal had opened up to Kate his secrets had died with her that day at the hangar.

Having arrived at the Courtyard Cafe, the hospital's cafeteria, Peter glanced over the items he had to choose from. He settled for a chicken salad sandwich from the shelf beneath the counter and a glass of sweet tea. After paying, he found a seat by the window overlooking the courtyard and sat down. He opened the small plastic container and removed a half of the sandwich. Not liking the directions of them so far, Peter didn't want to be left to his own thoughts any longer, and since he did have news to report, he placed a call to Agent Jones.

Jones answered immediately, his first words after hello an inquiry about Neal's condition. Peter gave him the information he'd received and asked how things were going on their end. Jones told him that, with the assistance of the State Police, Agent Littleton and Agent Abernathy were transporting Eden and the other's back to New York. Once the suspects arrived, they would be processed and placed in holding until they could appear before a federal magistrate judge. They would all spend the night in jail, and with the cases against them, Peter guessed it would be the first of many. No judge in their right mind would grant Terrence Eden bail.

"They will make their first appearances tomorrow afternoon," Jones explained. "That gives us a little time to decide how we're going to charge them. I called Agent Hughes and caught him up to speed on everything."

Peter hadn't thought the first time about contacting the Section Chief. He was definitely being more friend than Agent.

"Good," Peter replied. "I'd guess Organized Crime will joining the party, too, once they realize they finally have their letter writer."

"Agent Littleton was going to reach out to them as soon as he finished with the NYPD."

Again, Peter hadn't given a thought to the NYPD plainclothes officers back in the city covering a meeting that never happened. "I don't envy that call."

"He wasn't too concerned," Jones said. "He said Eden got his information from somewhere, and in the interest of security, he had to keep them out of the loop."

"You heading back to the office?" Peter asked. It was Sunday afternoon and since the case wasn't technically theirs, they wouldn't be burdened with the mounds of paperwork Another task of Agent Littleton's that Peter didn't envy.

"Actually, I'm on my way to St. Barnabas," Jones replied. "I'm going to interview Andrew Carver and his mother."

"That should add valuable information," Peter commented. "The kid okay?" Peter remembered the concerned activities of onlookers he'd heard over the phone line and the kid's insistence that he was fine. No wonder he and Neal had hit it off so well. Of course, being held prisoner and stuffed in a trunk together was bound to create a sense of camaraderie.

"He's shook up, of course," Jones told him, "and has a minor concussion and a broken arm, injuries he sustained when he escaped. But he'll be own bed tonight."

"That's good to hear," Peter said. "Let me know what you find out. Especially from Ms. Carver." Peter was curious as to how the kidnapping/ransom thing had transpired.

"Want me to call you when I'm finished with the interviews?"

Peter glanced at his watch. "Yeah," he said, "but if I don't answer, leave me a message and I'll call you back. I hope to get in to see Neal soon, and I might not be able to take a call in the ICU."

"Not a problem." Jones paused before continuing. "I'm glad Caffrey's going to be okay, boss." His tone told Peter his fears before his words did. "The way he looked when you opened the trunk..." He let the sentence trail off.

"Yeah, I know," Peter remembered his own shock at the sight of Neal, blood covered and so very still. "It was scary seeing him like that."

"All the blood, and he wasn't _breathing_ ," Jones recalled. "I was afraid we were too late."

Peter had had the same fear. "But we weren't," he replied. "It will take some time, but he'll recover. And Clinton," It was Peter's turn to pause.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Thank you for all your help this weekend; you really put your ass on the line for me, and for Neal, and I appreciate it."

"You said Caffrey hadn't run, that something else was going on," Jones reminded him. "And you were right. I know better than to argue with your _Caffrey Radar._ "

"I just wanted you to know I appreciate it."

"I'm just glad things have worked out," he replied. "I'll give you a call later. Tell Neal I said hello."

After the call ended, Peter got to the business of eating his sandwich. He hadn't had much to eat since the whole ordeal with Neal had begun. Between the stress of the situation, the influx of information and the rapidly changing landscape of the investigation, he had neither the time nor the appetite. Even now, he didn't feel hungry but knew he needed something in his stomach. As Elizabeth had said; man cannot live by coffee alone.

He'd just finished his sandwich and was stuffing the napkins into the empty plastic container when his phone rang. The caller ID said _Good_ Samaritan _Medical Center._

"Agent Burke." Sooner than he'd expected, he guessed Neal had arrived at the ICU, and he was being summoned per his request.

"This is Janet, from ICU," the lady informed him, "I just got a call from the nurse in the Post-Surgical Care Unit-,"

He could tell by her tone something was wrong. "What is it?" He was on his feet, grabbing his lunch refuse. "Is Neal okay?"

"Mr. Caffrey is very agitated, sir," she informed him, "and they are concerned. But a familiar face might help ease his anxiety and since you are listed as a friend-"

By the words _is very agitated_ , Peter had been moving across the dining room with great haste. He dropped the plastic container and the remainder his tea in the trash receptacle as he left the cafeteria.

"Just tell me where I need to go."


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-three**

"Disorientation after surgery is to be expected," the nurse explained as she handed Peter a gown to put over his clothes. He'd already pushed his shirt sleeves up and washed his hand to this elbows. "and anxiety is common in victims of violent crime. But Mr. Caffrey's state is further intensified by the Ketamine in his system; it affects his perception of reality and right now, he sees everyone as a threat. His state of agitation is putting undue stress on his body."

"Can't you give him something to calm him down?"

Having donned the light blue paper gown and matching face mask, Peter followed the nurse down the wide corridor. It was lined with cubicles created by a series of green and orange plaid privacy curtains, and there was a lot of noise and activity. It looked to Peter like over half of the beds were in use. It was busy for a Sunday afternoon.

"We've given him what we can," she informed him as they walked, "but with a lung injury, we have to be careful with any medications that depress his pulmonary functions. We're hoping that seeing someone he trusts will make him feel less threatened and ease his anxiety."

Peter hoped so too, but there was the possibility it would have the opposite effect. At the hanger, Neal had been convinced Peter had betrayed him and planned to hand him over to his enemy. He seemed to have gotten past that on the ride to the hospital, but given Neal's erratic state of mind, there was no telling what reality he was now occupying. The truth was that in all the years they had known each other, Peter had played the role of adversary more than one of friend.

They stopped in front of cubicle number twelve. The curtain was drawn, hiding the residing patient from sight, but instead of pulling it open to allow access, the nurse turned to him.

"I want to prepare you for what you will see when you step in," she began. "That way, you won't be alarmed by Mr. Caffrey's appearance and further upset him."

That she felt she had to warn a Federal Agent about the appearance of her patient didn't bode well. Peter nodded in understanding.

"Non-hospital personnel is not usually allowed into the Post Operative Care Unit," she explained. "The purpose of this unit is to monitor the patient in the minutes and hours immediately following a surgical procedure. To this end, there's a lot of equipment; there will be several lines and wires attached to him. He was dehydrated when he arrived, so he's being given intravenous fluids as well as precautionary antibiotics to stop any infections from developing. His incisions are exposed," she continued, "but will be dressed before he is sent to the ICU. He also still has a chest tube; it will be removed once all the fluid had been drained and his lung function has stabilized." Her eyes searched his face for signs of reluctance. "You still want to go in?"

 _Exposed incisions and a chest tube._ Peter, now more appreciative for the heads-up, nodded firmly. "Absolutely."

She pulled the curtain aside, and in spite of her warnings, Peter still felt a jolt when he saw Neal. It wasn't the wires, lines, surgical incisions or even the clear tubing taped to his bare, discolored chest that upset Peter most; it was the fact that he was struggling weakly against _restraints._ Both his arms and his legs had been tethered to the railings of the bed. Neal's ankles had been completely immobilized, but the restraints on his wrists allowed him a small range of mobility. The IV lines, oxygen mask, and chest tube were all out of his reach. A nurse was by his side, speaking softly in an effort to soothe him, but he didn't appear in the least bit comforted.

"You've restrained him." He nearly choked on the words as he watched Neal pull against the wide, white straps.

"I'm sorry," she said, sensing his dismay. "I should have mentioned that as well, but it was necessary, Agent Burke. He tried to get up; he almost dislodged the chest tube before we could stop him. We've given him Lorazepam, which has helped some but as you can see, he's still quite distraught. The restraints are for his _safety_."

Peter understood the necessity but seeing Neal confined in such a way, after everything he'd been through, was upsetting.

"You do realize he was kidnapped, don't you?" he inquired quietly, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Held against his will and beaten?

"Yes, I _do_ realize, Agent Burke," Although her tone was firm, Peter heard the undercurrents of sympathy, "and as soon as he no longer poses a threat to himself will remove the restraints but for now, they have to stay in place; we can't risk further injury. If it's any consolation," she added, "he won't remember any of this later."

It wasn't much of a consolation as Peter watched Neal's persistent yet futile struggle. If this was Neal after a sedative, Peter could only imagine what he'd been like before one.

If he calmed down, the restraints would be removed, but that was somewhat of a chicken or the egg problem; as long as Neal felt his movement being constricted, even semi-conscious, he'd fight. However, until he stopped fighting against them, the restraints couldn't be removed. If Neal was in a lucid state of mind, he could explain it to him, but then, if he were lucid, he wouldn't be strapped to the bed in the first place.

"Alice," the nurse addressed her co-worker, who looked up at their arrival. "Agent Burke is a friend of Mr. Caffrey's, and hopefully, his presence will provide a sense of security."

Peter saw a look of relief cross her face. "I hope so," Alice said, relinquishing her post at the bedside with a reluctant glance at her patient, "because I'm certainly having no luck reassuring him." She met Peter's eyes as she stepped past him. "I'm glad you're here; he needs a friend right now."

Once Alice had departed, Peter stepped into the cubicle closer to Neal.

Neal's eyes were closed, but his head moved restlessly from side to side as he struggled against the straps that anchored him to the bed. His dark hair was messy, and the blood had been washed from his face, the contrast now between dark bruises and pale skin striking. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and an IV was attached to his right arm. As he'd been told, a chest tube was still in place and assorted wires connected him to several machines.

He glanced up at the monitor; heart rate, blood pressure, respiration and blood oxygen levels were all being tracked, but several of the numbers were flashing red, as was the long bar across the top of the screen.

"As you can see," the nurse commented, following his gaze, "his vitals are off the charts; we've turned off the alarms. We really need for him to calm down, Agent Burke. Anything you can do on that front will be very helpful."

Peter's first instinct was to issue an order; to tell Neal to cut it out, calm down and let the hospital staff do their work. That was the way their arrangement worked best. Neal was smart, and Peter valued his opinion but, in the end, he was the one who called the shots. He set forth the objectives, gave Neal his orders, and expected them to be followed. He kept things simple and direct. That was the way he handled Neal.

But as Elizabeth had pointed out, Neal needed a friend, not a handler.

But still, Peter was at somewhat of a loss. His friends were people he caught a game with or had a beer with after work. They didn't talk about their feelings and share their deepest fears; they talked about the job or their team's chances of making the playoffs. When friends of the family had difficult times, it was always Elizabeth who reached out to them. She knew what do and what to say. She was much better at emotional hand-holding than he was.

But Elizabeth wasn't here; he was, and Neal needed him. He'd managed to calm him on the ride in. Hopefully, he could do so again.

He caught Neal's hand in his own, and in spite of the trembling he could feel in his grip, Neal's continued effort to free himself left a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Neal," Peter said, his voice firm but gentle, _"Look_ at me."

Neal's eyes opened immediately, and Peter held his breath in anticipation, unsure of how he would react. Would his presence calm or further provoke him? Would Neal perceive him as a friend or foe?

But the blue eyes that found his provided no answer, there was no spark of recognition in them; there was only fear and distress.

"Let me _go,_ " Neal pleaded, his shaky voice barely audible beneath the mask. "I can't stay here," his eyes darted about anxiously, "if I do he will _find_ me."

"He says that over and over," the nurse behind him joined in hushed tones. "We've told him he's safe here, but he's fixated on the idea that someone is coming for him."

Considering that Eden had tracked him down after a decade and was the reason he was lying here with a chest tube draining fluid from his lung, Neal had a valid basis for that particular fear. He'd told him before that Eden was in custody and could pose no further threat, but at present reality didn't influence Neal's perception of things; bad memories and ketamine did.

Peter didn't know what else to say than what he had already stated.

"Neal, _listen,_ " Peter said. "He's been arrested; He's locked up. He's _not_ coming after you _._ "

"He'll send someone else _,_ " he whispered, his fear not abated, "and that's worse. _Please,"_ he begged, his voice was beginning to border on hysteria and his struggle resumed with new vigor. "You have to untie me. I can't let them find me like this."

Had Eden sent others to harm Neal in the past or was it just the product of a drug-induced hallucination? It was hard to tell. Both, to Neal, were equally real. Neal was afraid of being found but being found as he lay bound hand and foot was an even more terrifying prospect. Peter had gathered from Eden's file that he enjoyed hurting the helpless and right now, Neal was about as helpless as he could be. Again, although his fear was unfounded the basis for it was not.

"Look," he said, turning to the nurse to make his case. "You have to unfasten him; he's never going to calm down as long as he feels trapped like this."

"I'm sorry, Agent Burke," she replied with a shake of her head, "We can't risk it; he could further damage his lung."

Peter knew the staff had hoped his presence would offer Neal some reassurance but so far he'd had no impact at all. Neal didn't seem even to know him.

But then, he _remembered._ Turning back to Neal, he reached up and pulled down the mask that covered his face; he'd forgotten he even had it on.

"Neal," he said, hopeful that now Neal could see his face he'd know him. "It's me; it's Peter."

First, there was a look of confusion, but then Neal's eyes widened in recognition. Again, Peter waited to see how Neal responded to his presence.

"Peter?" Neal seemed uncertain, but at least he stopped pulling against Peter's grip.

"Yes, it's me, Neal," Peter confirmed, searching Neal's eyes for indication of how he was being received; was he friend or foe?

"Peter," Neal said again, this time relief flooding his eyes. "You're _here_." He could feel Neal squeezing his hand now instead of pulling away from it.

"Yes, I am," Peter said, encouraged at the reception. "And you're safe now, Neal, so please, try to relax."

"Make them _untie_ me, Peter," Neal's voice shook, a touch of desperation creeping his eyes. "I don't _feel_ safe like this."

Peter understood. He wouldn't feel safe tied to a bed either.

"I'll try, Neal," Peter told him, glancing at the Nurse, "but you have to promise to stay put, okay? You can't try to get up; you have to be still."

"I will," Neal said quickly, "just get these _off_ me."

Neal's tone was edgy, his emotional state still questionable and Peter could tell by the Nurse's expression that she wasn't convinced removing the restraints was a good idea.

"I'll hold him myself if he tries anything," Peter said, keeping his voice low, "but the only way you're getting his vital signs out of the red is to cut him loose. Trust me, I know; That's the only way he's going to calm down."

After only a moment's hesitation, she gave a nod of assent, then pulled the privacy curtain open slightly. "Alice," she called. "Can you bring us a blanket?"

"Mr. Caffrey," she said, stepping up to honor the request. "I'll unfasten the restraints, but as Agent Burke said, it's very important that you keep still." She fixed her eyes on his face. "If you try to get up," she warned him, "or bother any of these wires, or tubes, I will put them _right back on_."

At her stern words, tears welled up in Neal's eyes. Peter guessed they were a byproduct of the _emotional instability_ Dr. Duvall had warned about. Neal had gone from panicked to tearful in less than thirty seconds.

Taken aback by the sudden emotional shift of her patient, the nurse quickly softened her tone. "Okay, Mr. Caffrey," she said as she began to unfasten the strap that held Neal's wrist. "Everything is going to be fine. Just try to relax."

Finished with the first one, she then reached across to Peter's side and unfastened the other wrist as well. She then moved to the foot of the bed to release the straps that held his ankles. Just as she removed the straps, there was a zipping noise as the plaid curtain was pulled back; it was Alice returning with the requested blanket.

The unexpected sound and Alice's sudden appearance startled Neal; he flinched, his eyes widening in fear. Seeing his reaction, Alice halted her approach.

"It's okay," Peter said quickly, placing a hand reassuringly on Neal's arm. "It's just Alice bringing you a blanket."

Peter felt him relax, and Alice, seeing that his fear had abated, apologized for upsetting him.

"I'm sorry," she said, continuing her task. "I didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Caffrey, but I've brought you a blanket."

Neal had been trembling ever since Peter had come into the cubicle, and Peter could feel the blanket's warmth as she placed it over Neal's body. He shuddered, a sigh of relief escaping his lips, as the warmth settled over him. Peter released Neal's hand, gently tucking it under the blanket as well.

"Thank you," Neal's words of gratitude were barely audible, but Alice's smile indicated that she'd heard them nonetheless.

"You are very welcome," she answered. With a nod to Peter and a quiet departing word to her co-worker, she left them to resume her other duties.

"Very good, Mr. Caffrey," the nurse sounded pleased, her eyes on the monitor. Peter followed her gaze; warning lights were no longer flashing. "Now we can concentrate on getting you ready to go to the ICU." A moment later, she replaced Neal's oxygen mask with a nasal cannula. "I'm going to update the doctors," she said, looping the thin tubing around Neal's ears and placing the prongs in his nostrils. "Dr. Allison will want to see you before we remove the lung tube."

"Rest if you can, Neal," Peter encouraged after the nurse had left them. Now that Neal had relaxed and was resting comfortably beneath his warm blanket his eyes were showing signs of fatigue.

"Will you stay if I do?" Neal asked hopefully, "Just in case?"

 _Just in case._ Neal still wasn't convinced he was safe from Eden's grasp, but instead of telling him yet again he had no reason to be afraid, Peter simply granted his request.

"Sure, I'll stay," Peter said, reaching over and pulling the burnt orange plastic chair closer to the bed and sitting down. "I'll be right here the whole time."

Peter saw both relief and gratitude in Neal's eyes. "Thanks, Peter," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "I feel better knowing you're with me."

The words were simple but what they conveyed was anything but. Neal looked as young now as he had in the photo Agent Littleton had shown him at the office.

Young, but this time not alone, and his words told Peter that, at least on some level, he knew that.

Mission accomplished, Peter thought to himself.

At least for now.


	34. Chapter 34

_Thank you to all who are following this story. Reviews are very, very welcome, so take a second to leave me a word (or more than one if you are so inclined) when you finish the chapter._ _I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility._

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Four**_

Neal's rest and Peter's respite were short-lived; the need to draw a blood sample brought them to an end.

The lady who entered was one Peter hadn't seen before, but the tote she carried of various implements indicated that taking blood samples was probably her primary function. Peter got to his feet as she entered just in case Neal awakened disoriented or afraid.

Her name tag said _Sandy Watson, Phlebologist_ , and seeing that Neal was sleeping, she tempered her voice and addressed Peter.

"I need to get a blood sample from Mr. Caffrey," she informed and, noting that she was coming to his side of the bed, Peter moved out of the way and took up position on the other side. He didn't know what state of mind Neal might awaken in, but if he resisted or tried to get up, he needed to be close enough to prevent him from doing anything to injury himself. He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but he had promised the nurse that he would if it became necessary.

She sat the gray plastic tote on the chair Peter had just vacated and removed a few items, placing them on the bed beside Neal and snapped on a pair of medical gloves.

"Mr, Caffrey," she said once she was ready to proceed, "My name is Sandy, and I need to get a blood sample from you, okay?"

There was both fear and confusion when Neal opened his eyes and seeing it, Peter placed a firm hand on his shoulder to comfort or, if necessary, to contain.

"It's okay, Neal," he said quickly, hoping to avoid a return to Neal's earlier state of agitation. "I'm right here."

Neal's anxious eyes left Sandy's face and found Peter's and the tenseness in his face somewhat relaxed. Although he didn't look at ease, he didn't look like a flight risk, either and Peter considered that a win. He was relieved that his presence still brought Neal comfort; he hadn't been sure the progress from before would transfer into the now.

At Neal's expression of distress Sandy had hesitated in her task but now sensing less apprehension, she resumed, moving the blanket back to gain access to his arm.

"Before they start the pain management regimen," she explained, tightening an elastic band just above the bend of his arm, "they need to check the ketamine level in your blood."

She glanced at Neal's face as if she expected a question, but he remained quiet, his eyes watching as she sterilized the inside of his arm with a small cleaning wipe. "Can you squeeze your fist for me?"

Neal did as she requested and, moments later, the job was complete. Sandy removed the elastic band, and after stoppering the vial, disposed of the needle in the Sharps container. She picked up a band-aid from the bed and placed it over the cotton ball she had been holding tightly in place. She removed her gloves and dropped them into the trash.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked, pulling a label from a sheet and placing it on the tube of blood she'd taken. Neal didn't speak but responded with a small shake of his head. "Good." She picked up the plastic tote. "I'll get these to the lab."

After she had left them, Peter hoped Neal would be able to drift back to sleep, but it was not to be. A man, about Peter's age and dressed in a white coat, entered the cubicle. He was accompanied by the nurse who'd first greeted Peter when he entered the unit. He acknowledged Peter with a nod and addressed his patient.

"I'm Doctor Allison," he said, stepping up to the side of the bed. "I assisted Dr. Riley in your surgery earlier this afternoon."

Even though the doctor's arrival hadn't seemed to startle Neal, he still had a look of disconcertment at his approach. Again, Peter placed a steadying hand on Neal's shoulder and the doctor continued.

"I'm going to give you a quick check," he explained, "and see about getting this chest tube removed, okay?"

Dr. Allison didn't wait for a response but started the examination, pulling down the blanket to expose Neal's chest and midsection. As he had with Sandy, Neal followed the doctor's movements and when he saw what the blanket had been covering, his breath caught and his eyes widened. Peter couldn't blame him; the sight of Neal's discolored torso, incisions, as well as the clear plastic tube exiting his lung had shocked him at first as well, and even now, was still unsettling to behold.

Due to Neal's state of mind thus far, he'd not been given information about his medical care nor had he been in any condition to understand it if he had been. Peter doubted he had any idea of the extent or seriousness of the injuries he had sustained; he wasn't even sure Neal remembered how he'd received them. His understanding of what had happened, or even what was happening, had been considerably impaired over the past several hours. A combination of physical and emotional trauma, as well as being dosed with ketamine, had clouded Neal's perception of reality and left him frightened and confused.

Peter's followed the Nurse's gaze to the monitor above Neal's head. He guessed there had been a spike in the vitals, but at least no warning lights were flashing and Neal wasn't trying to escape. Compared to earlier he seemed stable, but his continued silence concerned Peter. Without either eye contact or words, it was hard to determine what Neal's state of mind really was.

Also having noted his patient's distress, Dr. Allison made an effort to reassure him. "I realize this is upsetting," he conceded. "For that reason, we usually have all this cleaned up before the patient is fully awake. But once the incisions are cleaned and dressed, and this tube is removed, I promise, this will look much better."

The look of shock faded from Neal's face leaving in its place one of concern and mild apprehension. But in spite of his unease, Neal remained still, quiet, and cooperative as the doctor proceeded with the exam. Dr. Allison spoke to both Neal and the nurse when necessary, giving Neal specific instructions as he evaluated his condition, and relaying information to the nurse to include in Neal's chart.

As the examination continued, Peter could see small beads of sweat beginning to form on Neal's forehead, his expression changing from one of unease to one of discomfort. The doctor was gentle, and Neal wasn't being asked to move about or do anything more strenuous than take a few deep breaths and cough, but Peter could tell he was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Until now, Neal had been addled-minded but pain-free but that seemed to be changing. Peter guessed that the effects of the anesthesia, and maybe even the ketamine, were wearing off. Sandy had said the blood test was a precursor to pain medication and Peter hoped it was on its way; Neal looked like he needed it.

Dr. Allison, also perceptive to his patient's growing discomfort, squinted at the IV bags and frowned. "Why hasn't his post-op pain medication been started?"

"They're waiting for the results of his last blood test to determine the dosage," the nurse replied. "Should be soon."

His pursed lips told Peter he wasn't pleased with the delay, but he continued with the assessment. By the time he'd finished, Neal's eyes were closed, brows furrowed, the stamp of pain now indisputably clearly on his face.

"Everything looks good," the Doctor said, addressing Peter more than Neal at this point. "Lung sounds clear, and his O2 levels are good. Once the pain medicine is started, the tube can be removed. I'll put in orders for respiratory therapy and check on him in the morning."

Peter reached down and pulled the blanket back up over Neal. The chill in the air had dissipated most of its earlier heat, but it still held some warmth. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"And I'll see where they are with that pain medication, too," the doctor added.

" _Thank_ you," Peter replied with gratitude.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dr. Allison was as good as his word; five minutes later relief arrived in the form of Morphine, and not a moment too soon.

"This has an immediate onset," the nurse explained as she hung the IV bag and started the medication. Peter saw proof of her claim as Neal's face almost instantly began to relax. The tension faded first from his brow and then across this eyes, the steady flinch that had crinkled the corners of his eyes disappearing. Next, his pursed lips relaxed and parted slightly, his breathing slowed and deepened.

Peter, too, felt the relief of the medication even though it hadn't been administered to him. Although he had only been alone with Neal five minutes, it had felt like hours as he watched the young CI grow more and more restless. His eyes had remained closed, his chest rising and falling rapidly and Peter watched with concern as not only his respiratory rate rose, but his heart rate and blood pressure did as well. Earlier his vitals had risen to alarming rates because of his confusion and anxiety, but now it was pain that drove them up. Soft grunts of discomfort began to issue from his pursed lips, his hands gripping the blanket tightly. Before it had been fear that prompted Neal's desperate behavior but Peter had begun to worry that pain was going to push him in the same direction.

He had been almost to the point of raising a ruckus himself when the pain medication finally arrived.

"That's better," the nurse commented as she too saw the pain in Neal's face ease. "Mr. Caffrey," she said, raising her voice a bit to rouse him from his stupor. His eyes opened, the medication that was dulling his pain likewise dulling his eyes. "We've started a Morphine Sulfate drip to help manage your pain," she articulated, studying him to determine how much of her words he was able to process. "It should reach its peak in just a few minutes." Dull eyes blinked slowly. "Once your pain is under control, I'll remove the drainage tube, clean you up and get you ready for the move to ICU." She kept her eyes on Neal's blue ones. "Okay?"

Apparently somewhere in his mind, Neal realized she was waiting for a response and, after a moment's lag, nodded. Usually one not only to anticipate a question but have a scripted answer at the ready, the boy before Peter was not the Neal Caffrey he had come to know.

But then again, he hadn't been the Neal he'd come to know ever since he'd opened the trunk of Eden's car.

"Good." Satisfied, she straightened up and glanced at Peter. "I've got to get a few things together, and I'll be right back."

Neal rested quietly, eyes closed until she returned. She had a cart of supplies this time, including a blue stripped hospital gown.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Mr. Caffrey," she stated, looking pointedly at Peter.

Taking his cue, Peter rose from the chair. "I'll just stretch my legs," he said, meeting Neal's disinterested eyes, "and I'll be back in a few minutes."

Pain medicine now fully engaged, Peter didn't mind leaving Neal on his own. Plus, he wasn't keen on the idea of seeing the chest tube removed.

He left, pulling the curtain closed behind him, and moved down the corridor. He checked his phone; still no word from Jones. It felt like he'd been back with Neal for hours but in reality, it had been less than half an hour. He got a drink of water from the fountain and then found a bathroom. After washing his hands, he splashed water on his face. He killed a few additional minutes before making his way back to cubicle twelve. His timing was perfect; he met the nurse as she rolled the cart out.

"He's all set," she told him. "They are getting his room in ICU ready now; someone will be in to take him up shortly."

Neal looked paler than he had when Peter had left him; he guessed the clean-up process had taken a lot out of him. He looked better now that he was dressed and the blanket that covered him from mid-chest down was a new one. It had been freshly taken from the warmer; Peter felt the heat radiating from it as he approached Neal's bed.

"Feeling better?" Neal had been so quiet since he'd awakened, and now that they were alone, Peter wanted to gauge his current mindset. That meant, at the very least eye contact, and at best, a verbal exchange.

Neal's eyes, although lacking their usual sharpness, found Peter's face and widened in surprise. Peter wasn't sure if it was a good surprise or a bad one.

"Peter?" Neal's voice was quiet, his eyes questioning. "What _happened?"_

He was looking to him for answers, and although Peter had known there was likely to be gaps in Neal's memory, he wasn't sure if they were crevices or canyons.

"What do you remember?" he parried, trying to get a lay of the land.

Neal's look of uncertainty remained, and Peter felt him searching his eyes for a clue. Finding none, he finally answered.

"I'm not sure," he admitted, eyes bouncing nervously across Peter's face. "I have bad dreams sometimes."

Peter wasn't sure what to do with such an admission; he had a hard time imagining such a thing from his upbeat and perpetually cheerful CI. He'd known Neal for a long time, had chased him, caught him, locked him up and now worked side by side with him each day. Over the course of time, he'd learned that although they were few and only surfaced on rare occasions, Neal Caffrey had tells. They were subtle and difficult to break down or explain, but they were there. Like the way his jaw would clench almost imperceptively or the light would fade from his eyes while he kept his patented Neal Caffrey smile firmly in place. There was, of course, the running of his fingers through his hair which came across as charming when it, in fact, indicated that he was freaking out. Peter had learned to pick up on all of these, to read between the lines and at times, see past the well-crafted facade that Neal indubitably presented to the world.

At the office, and more importantly in his own mind, he was the resident expert on Neal Caffrey; if anyone knew Neal, could read him, anticipate or handle him, it was Peter Burke. But in all the years he'd known Neal, he had never once mentioned having bad dreams.

But, of course, when would that have come up in conversation between an asset and his handler? Somewhere between radius limitations and mortgage fraud?

It was something one admitted to friends, and only good ones at that.

The blue eyes still sought information, growing anxious in spite of the morphine coursing through his veins. Peter wasn't sure how much to say; he didn't want to upset Neal and send his vitals skyrocketing.

"You were kidnapped, Neal," he said gently, watching for his response. "By a man named Terrence Eden."

Neal had never mentioned nightmares, childhood memories, his time in Chicago or Terrence Eden.

His face fell when Peter uttered the man's name, his look of desolation palpable.

"It's _real,_ then," he whispered brokenly, tears once more welling up in his eyes. "He finally _found_ me."

Before Peter could reply, tell Neal yet again that Eden had been arrested and would never hurt him again, Neal turned his face away. Peter had seen a similar reaction in Neal twice today, but this was more pronounced, more intense. Tears began to slip from beneath his now closed lids, leaving trails of wetness down his face. His distress grew and with a shuddering breath, Neal covered his face with both hand. His body trembled, but not from the cold, and the hands pressed over his face didn't muffle the sounds of his distress.

Peter Burke was an experienced Federal Agent; he faced challenges and dangerous situations without wavering. He'd brought down hardened criminals who would as soon put a bullet in your head as talk to you, and he was skilled at determining, and implementing, the best approach in interrogation to break a suspect.

He was a handler; he managed cases, situations and even people quite effectively. He faced adversity undauntingly.

Yet now, alone with his overwrought CI, Peter felt unnerved and ill-equipped. He'd rather be facing a gun-toting criminal than an emotionally distraught Neal Caffrey.

 _What would Elizabeth do?_ He asked himself as Neal continued to sob inconsolably, face hidden behind shaking hands.

Peter knew what she would do; she'd _console._ She'd reach out. She'd say something comforting. She was good at that as Peter was at sweating a suspect.

But again, Elizabeth was not the one _here_. _He_ was.

With a breath to fortify himself, Peter reached down and took Neal's wrists in his hands, pulling them from his face. Neal's eyes opened and there was no seeing past the Neal Caffrey façade; there _was_ no mask in place. The anguish in the blue eyes was raw and uninhibited.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter assured him, trying to keep his voice gentle yet convincing. "Eden's in jail and he will _never. hurt. you. again."_

His words brought no solace; the tears continued to flow and Peter felt Neal grip his forearms and pull him in. Neal needed more than verbal consolation; he needed physical reassurance and his beseeching eyes told Peter as much. It was so unlike Neal to need anything, to be anything less than self-reliant, that Peter was momentarily taken aback.

He'd thought before that it was hard to reach out to someone who didn't reach back, but this time, _Neal_ was the one reaching. It reminded Peter of the Neal who'd inhabited his dreams the night before. A hurt, scared kid that needed someone to rescue him; someone to _care_. In his nightmares, Peter hadn't been able to reach Neal but now, at this moment, he _could._

Stepping further out of his comfort zone than ever before, Peter disengaged Neal's hands and, moving an arm behind his back, pulled the young man into a gentle hug. Neal grasped Peter's shirt front tightly, burying his face in his chest. Peter eased himself down on the edge of the bed, rhythmically stroking Neal's dark head and muttering whatever reassuring phrases came to mind as the young man wept in his arms. It was painfully reminiscent of the day that Kate had died; Neal then, too, had been inconsolable. But somehow, this seemed worse.

Then Neal had wept for Kate; for what _might have been_ but never _would_ be. He'd been a heartbroken man grieving a great personal loss.

But the tears Neal shed now as he sobbed into Peter's chest were tears from the past; the tears of a child grieving losses that Peter couldn't fathom.

So many tears, Peter thought as he gently rocked Neal out and back, and so much heartache. Decades worth, he imagined.

Peter Burke wasn't one to coddle and comfort and Neal Caffrey wasn't one to need it, yet still, here they were.

 _Handling Neal Caffrey_ had somehow gotten both simpler and more complicated.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Neal's outpouring of emotion continued for several moments before Peter sensed that the worst of the storm had passed. The weeping grew less intense and finally ceased, but lingering sobs still shook Neal's body. As they grew further apart, Peter expected Neal to push away, to disengage; but he didn't. Instead, he turned his head slightly, so his face was no longer buried, and rested his cheek against Peter's chest. He seemed content to remain where he was and Peter, not going to be the one to initiate separation, continued to rock him gently.

It wasn't until the nurse arrived to get Neal ready to transport to the ICU that Peter felt Neal pull away. He wasn't sure what to expect to see in Neal's eyes, wasn't sure what his own would express; an embrace between two men who didn't embrace was bound to be awkward.

Peter relaxed his grip and helped Neal back onto his pillow before retracting his arm. A blush of color crept into Neal's cheeks as his red-rimmed eyes briefly met Peter's before breaking the connection, and Peter's eyes likewise diverted as he felt the heat rise in his own face. He got to his feet as a sound like a soft hiccup escaped Neal's lips; a by-product of his recent bout of tears. He turned his tear-streaked face away and closed his eyes.

The nurse, aware she'd broken what appeared to be an emotional moment, sent Peter an apologetic look as she transferred the IV bags to the metal hook attached to the bed.

"I'm sorry, Agent Burke," she said quietly, "But if you'd like to go up to the ICU waiting room, I'll send someone out to get you as soon as he's settled in."

The nurse probably assumed he and Neal could resume their conversation, or whatever she'd interrupted, once the move was complete, but Peter wasn't so sure. Even though it hadn't been verbal, Neal had opened up; he'd lain his heart bear and that wasn't something he did. Even when Peter had held him after the explosion of the plane, Neal had struggled to free himself until, finally, exhaustion had taken over. Shortly after that, the Marshals had arrived, and all emotion had drained from Neal's face. Hiding his feelings and closing himself off was the way he protected himself when he felt at his most vulnerable. After what Peter had learned about Neal's past, he could see why he had developed that particular survival tactic.

But Neal's defenses weren't up to par and he had been unable to hide his distress behind empty eyes or a bright smile. Overwhelmed, he had reached out for consolation but Peter had seen regret in his eyes afterward. He was afraid his own awkwardness at the situation had led to Neal's feeling of remorse. Neal had always presented himself as confident and controlled, and it was important to him that people perceived him that way. Peter knew that was especially true where he was concerned. His opinion mattered to Neal and had from the beginning.

During the years he'd chased Neal, the young man had gone to great lengths to impress him, to win, if not his approval, his respect. In many ways he had succeeded; he was smart, and Peter liked smart. For that reason, he had agreed to take him on as his CI. Since their unusual working arrangement, Peter's respect for Neal's particular talents and intelligence had only increased. Neal's finely honed skills as a con man made him a natural at undercover work and his out of the box thinking helped close numerous cases. He was great in the field, but he also did impressive work from behind a desk. Digging through case files, Neal often uncovered connections and discovered leads more experienced agents had overlooked. He had become a valuable member of the White Collar team and positively beamed anytime Peter said as much. Even now, Peter's respect was something he valued.

Peter didn't want Neal to think that his tears had diminished that respect in any way or made him less in his eyes.

Neal's childhood may have been difficult, but his teen years in Chicago were verifiable so. He'd been recruited, used, and even abused by Terrence Eden. With that as his springboard, Neal could easily have become a violent offender himself, but he hadn't. Neal's moral code might be somewhat skewed, but unlike Terrence Eden, he had one.

In truth, if anything, what Peter had learned over the past days had elevated his opinion of Neal Caffrey. He may have respected his intelligence, tenacity, and skills, but he hadn't respected the choices he made. Neal was cocky and loved to thumb his nose at authority and had chosen a life of crime when he was smart enough to have been successful at any number of legitimate careers. Peter had thought it was the thrill of breaking the law, a spirit of rebellion, which had motivated Neal's life decisions. But now he knew there had been other factors; circumstances beyond Neal's control that had set him on that path. With that knowledge, Peter viewed Neal differently. He still didn't approve of his choices or condone his actions, but he had a better understanding of them.

The nurse left and the intern who'd accompanied her unlocked the wheels on the bed. He was about to roll his patient out when Peter put a hand on Neal's arm.

"Neal," he said, prompting the intern to pause and Neal's eyes to open. Peter saw in them both the weariness that followed tears and the grogginess that followed morphine. "Everything's is going to be okay," He stated firmly, keeping his eyes locked on Neal's, willing him to believe and take solace in his words. "I _promise._ "

Neal nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes grateful. "Thanks for finding me," he said quietly, "for getting me away from him." Again, _him_ needed no explanation. The thought of what Neal had endured, both physically and emotionally, over the past days caused Peter's chest to tighten with distress as well as anger.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Peter confessed, glancing at Neal's battered body. "I wish I'd have gotten to you sooner; before he _hurt_ you."

"It's okay, Peter," Neal mumbled, his brow furrowing slightly. "You didn't even know me then."

His words caught Peter by surprise, and the lump that suddenly rose in his throat stifled any reply.

Neal's eyes closed, and the brief exchange concluded, the intern resumed his mission and rolled Neal away.

Peter stood there a full minute, swallowing hard several times before he too exited the cubicle.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After a trip to the restroom to splash water on his face and regain his composure, Peter started up to the fourth floor. He had just stepped out of the elevator when the call from Jones came in.

"How's Neal?" Again, they were the first words out of the man's mouth.

"He's out of recovery," Peter told him, "They're moving him up to the ICU now," Peter told him. "How's the kid?"

It was a statement rather than an answer, but Jones let it go.

"Banged up a bit but considering everything he's been through, he's pretty good," Jones replied. "I talked to him, and his mother and they'll be in tomorrow to make their formal statements."

Jones told him that Andrew had been approached Friday morning by two men after his morning run before school. Being told that his mother had been in an accident, he'd gotten into their SUV, only to have them take his phone, secure his hands with duct tape, and put a black bag over his head.

"They used his phone to call his mother at work," Jones said, "and told her what they wanted her to do."

"So she fixed the tracking data to make it show Neal at his apartment." None of this was news.

"They told her they'd kill her son if she didn't," Jones explained, "and that as long as no one reported Caffrey missing for thirty-six hours, her son would be returned Sunday afternoon."

"Were there any subsequent contact with the kidnappers?" he asked.

"They sent her two proof of life videos from a blocked number," Jones informed him. "One Friday afternoon and another Saturday morning. I forwarded them to Agent Littleton."

"Anyone identifiable on the video?" Peter had reached the ICU waiting room again. Several of the faces were the same one's he'd seen before. "Voices we could match?"

"No," Jones said, "just the kid and they had him do the talking. But they never hid their faces from him, so he got a good look at them. He'll look at a photo array tomorrow as well."

Not hiding their faces told Peter they'd never intended to let the boy go.

"Anything else?" So far, the information had only confirmed what they already knew. There had been no new revelations.

Jones paused. "Apparently Neal tried to convince Andrew that he was the one behind the kidnapping." A statement like that could prove problematic; it could be used to implicate Neal in the crime. "He said Neal told him he was the reason he'd been taken," Jones continued, "and that he needed him to make a delivery to the park, and after he had, he'd be free."

"So did Neal say he'd _ordered_ the kidnapping or that he was the _reason_ for it?" Peter asked for clarification.

"The kid said the reason."

So typical of Neal to stick with the literal truth. "Were they alone at the time, or was someone else with them?"

"Andrew said one of the men who'd grabbed him was there, the nicer one."

Peter guessed _the nicer one_ was the missing third man; the kidnapper who'd grown a conscience and called the tip line. But Peter had a pretty good idea what Neal had been up to; he'd struck a bargain with Eden to save the boy's life and taking the blame for the kidnapping was his part of it. If Andrew identified Neal Caffrey as his kidnapper, there would be no reason for Eden to kill him.

"He was trying to get Andrew out of there," Peter commented. Even when things had gone south, getting the boy to safety had been Neal's primary concern.

"That's what it sounded like to me, too," Jones replied, "and guess what the kid was wearing? A Brighton Baron's Sweatshirt."

"I guess that explains that, then," Peter replied. He'd wondered about the odd instructions. "It was so we'd recognize Andrew as the delivery boy. Okay, Jones," Peter said. "Thanks for the call. I'm probably going to hang around here tonight, but I'll check in with you tomorrow."

"One other thing, boss," Jones added. "Andrew said that the two kidnappers called Neal _Caffrey_ but not the other guy, the guy in charge. Andrew only saw him once, when he put them in the trunk, but he said he called Neal _Danny._ "

"Danny," Peter repeated almost to himself. The boy Eden had recruited into his organization, the boy in the photo from the Chicago Precinct, and more importantly, the boy who had wept in his arms moments earlier had been named _Danny._

"Actually," Jones went on to say, "he said he called him _Danny-boy."_ Peter heard curiosity in his tone at Eden's adaptation of the name. Peter understood why; it sounded affectionate, but they both knew it was anything but. Terrence Eden was a sociopath who had no affection, or compassion, for anyone. "You finally got a _name,_ boss," Jones continued. "No last one yet, but at least it's a start."

It was the first thread Peter had ever found that might unravel who Neal Caffrey really was or where he'd come from. Up until now, for all he knew, the glib and gifted con artist had simply materialized in New York City at the documentable age of eighteen; _documentable_ being the key word since Neal Caffrey was a skilled forger. Peter thanked Jones again and ended the call. He found a chair and sank down.

 _Danny boy_ sounded like what a father would call a young son; not what the head of a criminal organization would call a foot soldier. But it fit with Edens MO. The man recruited kids with nowhere to go and no-one to _go to._ He preyed on the homeless, the runaways, and provided for their most basic needs; food, shelter, and protection. But he also provided something else. Once they were a part of his crew, they had a family of sorts, a place to belong. By providing that, Eden created a strong sense of loyalty within his ranks. These kids probably looked at him as a father figure, and he used that to control and manipulate them.

That, Peter realized, could well have been the thing that Neal, or Danny, had needed most in his life at the time; a father figure. Had he tried to win Eden's respect, his approval, the way he later would try to win his FBI pursuer's?

Elizabeth had often mused that Peter had become an emotional substitute for the absentee father in Neal's life; that she suspected it was the reason Neal had sought to build a relationship all along and why Peter's opinion of him mattered so much.

Though the idea that Neal, evenly subconsciously, viewed him that way made Peter somewhat uncomfortable, he recognized the advantages of it. A Neal seeking approval was less likely to run and went above and beyond to impress on the job. As his handler, this was a win-win for Peter and since it kept Neal on the straight and narrow, or the _relatively straight_ _and narrow_ , Peter rationalized it as good for him as well.

But now he felt his neck burn with shame; regardless of how he justified it, he too had played on Neal's insecurities, on his need for acceptance, to control, manipulate and even exploit him. After all, Peter Burke wouldn't have the highest case closure rate in the FBI without Neal Caffrey.

"Agent Burke?" So caught up in his own self-recrimination, he hadn't noticed that someone had come for him.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Caffrey is in room 422." The nurse handed him a card. "This is the code you'll need to get in to see him."

"Can I go back now?" Peter asked.

"He's resting comfortably," the young man informed him, "but you are welcome to sit with him if you wish."

Peter had felt protective of Neal before, but never as much as he did right now. He got to his feet. "I _most definitely_ wish."


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

Peter had only taken a few steps towards the double doors when his phone buzzed, indicating that he'd received a text message. He could think of only one person who'd send one. He took the phone out of his pocket; he'd gotten a message from Agent Littleton.

 _Call me when you can._

Not sure of the cell phone rules inside the ICU, Peter went ahead and placed the requested call to the Cyber Crimes Agent.

"Agent Burke," Littleton said when he answered. "How's your CI?"

"Doctors say he should make a full recovery," Peter told him, "but right now, he's still a little worse for the wear. How's things going on your end?"

"Eden and Maxwell invoked and aren't saying anything, but McAllister is willing to cooperate if we offer him a deal," Littleton informed him. "As a sign of good faith, he gave us the address of a warehouse in Queen where they worked from. He said he was only there Saturday night and early Sunday morning, draining Bradford & Donnelly accounts. But there was a problem," he went on to say, "and his access was cut off. Eden sent him to Sloatsburg. He told him he had some loose ends to tie up and that he'd join him later."

"Find anything useful at the warehouse?" Peter knew the agent would have sent a team to check it out.

"We found the jacket and blue tie Caffrey was wearing in the security footage, a bloody t-shirt, and some other blood evidence." Since Andrew Carver hadn't been hurt, Peter knew the blood belonged to Neal. "Samples have been sent to the lab. With Caffrey and the Carver kid as witnesses, the kidnapping case is a slam dunk," Littleton continued. "And with McAllister's testimony, we'll get him for the robbery as well."

"Did McAllister give up the name of the other man?" Peter asked, "The second kidnapper?"

The anonymous tipster, or as Andrew Carver had described him, _the nicer one_.

"No," the agent answered. "He said he only dealt with Terrence Eden and didn't know the other men by name."

"Agent Jones said the Carvers were coming in tomorrow to make their formal statements," Peter said. "Have the boy sit down with a sketch artist; maybe we can match it to someone. Maxwell worked at the Danford Building; maybe the other man did, too."

"That's a good idea," Agent Littleton said. "I'll get a list of employees and their photo ids. I'll need a statement from Caffrey, too. When do you think he'll be able to give me one?"

"I'm not sure," Peter stated honestly. "They've just started him on morphine and moved him into the ICU. I don't know when he'll be up to talking or how long they'll keep him there."

"Just let me know when he's up to it," Agent Littleton requested. "I'll bring the video camera and get his statement. Have you left the hospital yet?"

"No, I'm going to stay tonight," Peter answered. "He's still got ketamine in his system, and until that's over, I want to stay close."

"I understand," Agent Littleton said. "Anything you need from me?"

"Well," Peter said. "There is one thing. I could use some reading material. Any way you could get me a copy of that file you brought from Chicago?"

"The one relating to the trafficking case?" Agent Littleton sounded mildly surprised by his request.

"Yes," Peter said. "I'd like a chance to read over it if you don't mind."

"Might be a good idea that you be familiar with it," he said. "That case agent is flying in on Tuesday to talk to Caffrey." Peter knew that was coming; he was glad it was still two days out. "I'll fax them to the Suffern Police Department right now and have an officer bring them to you."

"Thanks," Peter replied. "I appreciate it. And I'll give you a call tomorrow after I talk to the doctor, about a good time to get that interview done."

"Thank you, Agent Burke," the agent replied. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

The call was disconnected and Peter proceeded to the entrance to the ICU, pressing the buzzer on the wall outside the double doors.

He recognized Janet's voice. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to see Neal Caffrey," He answered. "KJ-422?"

The automatic doors opened, and Peter stepped through. Janet's expression told him she remembered him, as did her greeting. "Agent Burke. Mr. Caffrey's room is just around to your left."

"Thanks." He made his way around the circular path until he found room 422.

As he had been told, Neal was sleeping peacefully; in fact, the expression on his face was almost placid. A nurse was with him, and she looked up when Peter entered.

"You would be Agent Burke?" She inquired. Apparently, his reputation preceded him.

"Yes," Peter replied, joining her at Neal's bedside. "How's he doing?" He doubted there had been any changes in the past half hour or so, but it was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

"His temperature is a little elevated," she informed him, "but there is always an increased risk of infection with spleen injuries. The antibiotics should take care of it, but we'll monitor him closely for the next twelve hours to make sure."

Neal had always looked younger than his age, and Peter wasn't sure if it was the bed that seemed to swallow his small frame, the face devoid of tumult or just his own new perspective, but Neal looked younger now than he ever had before.

"I'd like to stay with him tonight, if I can," Peter said, glancing around the room. Elizabeth was correct; he spotted a dark green recliner. "Just in case he wakes up confused about where he is and what's going on.'

"We're aware there are special circumstances in Mr. Caffrey's case; Dr. Duvall has already cleared for you to stay." She pressed a combination of keys on the IV stand, and satisfied turned to Peter. "The cafeteria is open until seven, Agent Burke," she told him. "If you haven't had dinner, you should go get something."

"I had a late lunch."

"I understand, but it's a long time until morning," she said, stepping past him. "He's resting well right now; if I were you, I'd take advantage of it."

She left with those parting words, and Peter pulled the cushioned chair from against the wall closer to the bed and sat down. Neal _was_ resting well, and Peter hoped that trend would continue throughout the evening and night. Even though he wasn't hungry, he was debating going on the hunt for a magazine, but knowing that reading material was on the way, he settled down and tried to wait patiently.

The machines hummed. Nurses moved to and fro outside Neal's room. Phones rang. Neal slept.

It was only fifteen minutes before a uniformed officer tapped on the glass outside Neal's open door.

"Agent Burke?" He held a manila envelope in his hand.

"That was fast," Peter commented, getting to his feet. "I'm Agent Burke."

The officer stepped into the room and handed the file to Peter. "We were told it was urgent."

"Thank you for getting it to me so quickly." Peter unwound the cord that held the envelope closed.

"Not a problem, sir," the officer replied. "Always glad to help the FBI."

With a curious glance at Neal, the officer left, and Peter pulled the papers from the envelope. On the top of the stack was a copy of the photo Agent Littleton had shown him only this morning; the photo of the boy who'd dropped the letter with the Chicago Police Department over a decade earlier. A boy who had been Danny but had became Neal.

He looked up from the photo to Neal, who's chest rose and fell gently, a look of tranquility on his bruised face.

As much as Peter had wanted to know about Neal's past, now that it seemed he finally would have answers he found no joy in it. Instead, he only felt a sense of dread at what digging up the past would do to the young man who'd tried so hard to bury it.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The file Agent Littleton had sent over via the Suffern Police Department contained documents, reports and interview notes; the initial one's initiated by the Chicago Detective who had received the letter, and subsequent ones by the Violent Crimes Division, Chicago Federal Bureau of Investigations who had taken over the case. The first document, directly behind the photo of Neal, detailed how the alleged crime had been brought to the detective's attention. The report had all the standard check boxes filled out, with a typewritten narrative at the bottom.

The Detective described the young man who'd left the letter as approximately fourteen to sixteen years of age, blue eyes, brown hair, wearing blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and sneakers. He also noted that there were numerous contusions and substantial bruising on his face, and that his movements had seemed pained. The desk clerk, and the Detective as well, had thought the subject had come to report some kind of physical abuse. The Detective went on to recount his brief interaction with the boy, how he'd asked for a glass of water and had disappeared before the Detective had returned. The Detective then noticed that a letter had been left on his desk. After reading it, he had immediately left, hoping to catch the young man on the street, but his efforts to locate him had been futile. Not only then, but in the days that followed.

Peter looked up at Neal. If the Detective was correct, then Neal was at least two years younger than his birth certificate indicated, possibly even four. He'd always suspected that Neal Caffrey wasn't his real name, but he hadn't really questioned his age until he'd seen the photo. But if the young Danny had changed his name, he could have just as easily changed his age as well.

The letter had provided enough information to launch an inquiry, and with further investigation into the named properties, a case against the building's owner began to take shape. The investigation against Douchant took off but, try as they might, the case against Terrence Eden never got any traction. Every time there seemed to be a lead to follow, something to tie him to Douchant or his illegal activities, it resulted in a dead end. The only person who seemed willing to say anything against Terrence Eden was his former forger, and no one could even find a name, much less produce the man himself. The boy who'd left the letter was the only lead to him, and he too remained nameless and unattainable. Peter could almost feel the frustration of the investigators radiating off the pages.

There was little information about the boy other than what the Detective had provided, but there were some comments about the mysterious forger. Having acquired some of the documents the man had admitted to creating, the FBI had put together a general profile in an effort to identify him.

 _The documents are of exceptional quality, meticulously produced down to the smallest detail. The subject is very knowledgeable in material use and design selection and utilizes a variety of skills including artistic reproduction and signature duplication. Since no identifying mark has been found on any document he has produced, he likely engages in this activity purely for financial gain._ _The subject is intelligent, well educated, and may work in a field where he has access to or processes a variety of legal documents._

 _The letter written_ _to authorities indicates he has empathy for those he perceives as helpless and feels a moral obligation to protect them. He may identify with their plight due to his own experiences or of that of someone close to him. He is likely a law abiding citizen in all other aspects of his life and viewed positively by peers and co-workers. His level of expertise indicates years of experience in document reproduction._ _His estimated age is between forty and fifty years._

With those as the parameters, no wonder they'd never found Eden's forger or considered that the person who'd delivered the letter had actually _written_ it. After all, they were looking for a middle-aged clerical worker, and as Agent Littleton had observed, the person who left the letter was just a _kid_.

Peter wondered if Agent Littleton had revealed that Neal was the forger, or if the agent flying in on Tuesday still thought he was just the delivery boy. He supposed he'd find out the answer to that soon enough.

Again, the thought of how Neal was going to respond to being forced to face his past was concerning. Right now, he was resting, unaware of what lay ahead, but that blissful state would not last long. By tomorrow, Agent Littleton would arrive to get a statement about Neal's recent dealings with Terrence Eden, and the following day, another Federal Agent would be asking about his _not-so-recent_ dealings with the man.

But the meetings would not be antagonistic in nature, Peter told himself. Neal wasn't in any _trouble,_ in fact, both Agents were looking to him to make their cases. He had been a minor when he worked for Eden in Chicago and writing the letter and leaving it with the police had been a brave thing to do. The information had brought down a human trafficking operation, saved a half dozen children and any number of other victims. Francis Douchant was serving a life sentence, and with Neal's cooperation, Terrence Eden would share the same fate. As difficult as facing his past might be, being a part of bringing Eden to justice, of seeing the man held accountable for his crimes, might give Neal the closure he needed to come to terms with it and put it behind him for good.

But in spite of his attempt to put a positive spin on the upcoming interviews, Peter still felt a sense of unease. Neal could have used what he had on Eden to cut a deal when he'd been arrested, but he hadn't. He could have used it as a bargaining chip when he'd been sentenced to four years in a maximum security prison but he hadn't opened his mouth. He could have tried to use it as leverage to get the FBI to help him find Kate, but he hadn't done that either.

Neal had never cashed in that chip because he didn't want to answer the questions doing so would raise. He hadn't wanted to answer them then and he wouldn't want to answer them now. But any hint of an unwillingness to cooperate could quickly change the tone of the meetings from interview to interrogation. Neal was a federal prisoner on work release and that status could be revoked at any time. The FBI would not hesitate to play that trump card if it became necessary. Neal needed to be aware of that and he needed to behave accordingly.

Feeling tension building in his neck and between his shoulders, Peter stood up and, linking the fingers of his hands together, stretched his arms above his head. He needed to move around a bit, clear his head and get something to drink.

And he needed to call Elizabeth. He knew just hearing her voice would make him feel better.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

With a glance back at Neal's still figure, Peter left the room. On his way down the wide hall, he told the duty nurse his intention. He asked that she call if Neal needed him before he returned, but the way Neal had been sleeping, he didn't anticipate any problems. Still, he wanted to cover his bases just in case. His entire reason for being present was to be available if Neal awakened disoriented, upset or frightened. She assured him she would, and Peter left the ICU.

Visiting hours having ended at eight p.m., the waiting room was practically empty when Peter exited the double doors at ten-thirty. There were only two occupants; an older gentleman and women with exhausted faces. They sat close together on a burnt orange sofa, drawing comfort from one another in whatever difficulty they were facing. Peter gave what he hoped was an encouraging nod as he passed, going to the alcove where the vending machines resided. He dug for change, inserted it and selected a bottled water from the menu. It dropped loudly into the receptacle and he retrieved it.

He unscrewed the top, took a sip, and dialed Elizabeth. He had a lot to tell her but the truth was that he needed her encouragement and her wisdom. She was so much better at this kind of stuff than he was and the thought of the days ahead filled him with both feelings of dread and inadequacy.

Peter related what Agent Jones had learned from his conversation with Andrew Carver especially the more illuminating details.

"So his name is, _was_ , _Danny_?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied, "and he's probably younger than he claims to be, too."

"How much younger?"

"Not sure," Peter replied uneasily, "But at least a couple years, maybe as many as four."

 _"Four?_ " her voice was incredulous. She did quick math in her mind. "You mean he might have only been _seventeen_ when you started chasing him?"

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. It doesn't _matter,"_ Peter's tone was sharper than he'd intended,"That's still considered an _adult_ , El; old enough to be held accountable for his crimes."

Still, seventeen, eighteen or nineteen was not twenty-one; the age he had attributed to his adversary at the time.

"I wasn't blaming you for _chasing_ him, Peter," Elizabeth chided gently. "Or _arresting_ him. I was just thinking his age was probably was a factor in the way he reached out to you. We've _talked_ about this."

Peter knew the recrimination he'd felt from her question was just his own guilty conscious. They _had_ talked about it, but having learned about Neal's history with Terrence Eden, about the unhealthy father-son dynamic the older man had used to manipulate him, the topic of _father figures_ made Peter more uncomfortable than ever. He wasn't happy with the way he too, had used Neal's vulnerability in that area.

And he did feel bad that he'd chased a kid, a kid that was all alone with nowhere to go, so relentlessly.

But in his defense, although he knew James Bonds was young, he hadn't known _how_ young. And he'd never perceived Neal Caffrey as a victim of circumstance. He'd seen him as just the opposite; as a _manipulator_ of circumstances who could turn any situation to his advantage with charm and good looks. His goal of pursuit had been to keep the pressure so tight on the young criminal that he couldn't find a moment's peace. Everyone needed a place to rest, to feel safe and regroup, and he made sure Neal Caffrey didn't have one. Each time he'd learned Neal had been anywhere more than a few days, he'd find a way to send him running again. He hadn't known then that Neal had been running long before he had the FBI on his tail and that he'd never had much of a safe place in his life.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, ceasing his restless pacing and sinking down into one of the waiting room chairs. "I'm just-" he paused, _"tired._ " He hadn't slept much the night before and the day had been brutally long. Worrying about Neal was exhausting. "Agent Littleton is coming to talk to Neal tomorrow and the Violent Crime Division is sending someone on Tuesday. They're going to be a lot of questions about his time in Chicago."

"It's what you said would happen," Elizabeth recalled. "Have you been able to talk to Neal at all about this? Any idea how he's doing with it?"

Peter shook his head although she couldn't see him. "No, none," he answered. "He's been sleeping this evening but earlier, when he woke up from surgery he was upset, scared. They had to call me to the recovery room to calm him down." He went on to tell her about Neal's emotional outburst, and how he'd later asked him to stay with him.

"See, Peter," He could hear the tremble of emotion in her voice, and imagined, had he been there, he would have seen a glint of tears in her eyes as well. "I told you you'd be fine; he needed you and you were there."

"I don't know," he replied wearily, the strain of the day taking its toll on both body and spirit. "I'm not good with _emotional_ stuff; I don't think I'm the person _for_ this."

"You're the _only_ person for this," she countered, echoing what Peter unfortunately knew was true. "It's about trust and although Neal has issues on that front we both know he trusts _you_. He told you that you were the _only_ person he trusted, remember?"

Of course, Peter remembered. It had happened at the Howser Clinic when Neal had told him that he was the only person in his life he trusted. Not Mozzie, not Kate, but him. He'd looked like a kid then, too, eyes glassy and hair messy, and his words had surprised caught Peter. It had been a pivotal moment in their partnership; in their _relationship._ At least it had been for him. Neal didn't remember any of it having been drugged at the time.

"He trusts me to call him on his bull crap," Peter chuckled, visualizing the mock hurt look on Neal's face when he did just that, "and he proves every day as my CI he trusts me to keep him safe," His tone again grew serious. "But this is different. He doesn't trust me with _personal_ stuff; I don't think he trusts anyone with that."

"He's not had anyone _to_ trust," Elizabeth reminded him, "but that's changed, Peter, he's not alone anymore. He has people who care about him now."

"You know that and I know that," Peter said, "but I'm not sure he does."

"Well, from what you've said," she pointed out. "It sounds to me like he does."

Peter agreed; on some level, Neal _did_ know. _I feel better knowing you're with me_ ; he'd said.

But that Neal was not the Neal he'd come to know and it wasn't the Neal he expected to see once he was feeling better. Neal withdrew, closed himself off when he felt emotionally at risk; he didn't reach out or seek comfort. But traumatized and then drugged, his usual self-protection measures had not been engaged. Peter suspected the person he'd interacted with over the past few hours was more Danny than Neal; a younger, less guarded version of his CI that had been brought to the surface by the sudden appearance of Terrence Eden in his life and drugs in his blood stream.

"Maybe," Peter admitted, remembering the way Neal had pulled him close and buried face in his chest. "But he's been really out of it, El. I doubt he'll remember any of this tomorrow."

"He reached out to you, Peter," she stated. "Whether he remembers doing it or not, it doesn't change the fact that he did it."

Neal hadn't remembered the exchange at the Howser Clinic either, but it hadn't taken away from the significance of his proclamation.

"I know," Peter conceded. "I just dread what's coming. I'm not sure how he's going to handle them asking about Chicago, his past with Eden."

"Then you ask him about it _first_ ," she advised him. "As his friend, as someone he trusts. If you do that, you can help him handle it _before_ they talk to him. What time is Agent Littleton coming?"

"He told me to call him when Neal was up to it."

"Well that's what you do, then," she insisted. "Talk to Neal about it, let him know what's coming, and when he's ready for the interview, call the Agent."

As much as Peter dreaded bringing up the subject, as Elizabeth had pointed out, it would be better coming from him than from a stranger. And he didn't want Neal blindsided by the questions that were going to be asked. "That's what I'll do," he said. "Thanks, El. I feel better now."

"You'll feel even better if you get some sleep," she told him. "Ask them to bring you a toothbrush and toothpaste and I'll bring you a change of clothes in the morning."

"You don't have to come up here," Peter protested. "Once I know Neal's okay, I'll come-"

"But you don't know when that will be," she reminded him. "And I want to come; I _miss_ you, plus," she added. "I wouldn't mind seeing Neal, either, just to let him know I'm in his corner."

There was no use arguing with her, and Peter had to admit, he'd feel better in proper attire and not in high school team wear. He thanked her again, bid her good night and ended the call. Still tired but more encouraged, he picked up a couple sporting magazines from the waiting room. He returned to the double doors, went through the entrance protocol, and returned to room 422.

Neal was still sleeping and Peter settled into the chair and opened one of the magazines. It wasn't long before he was joined by the night nurse.

Neal was checked every hour by a CNA but visits from the nurse were less frequent. Peter had seen her twice since she'd come on to duty at seven. This time she had brought a new IV bag. She began to change one for the other as Peter looked on in curiosity.

"He's still running a fever," she explained as she worked, "so the doctor has ordered a new antibiotic. Hopefully, he'll respond better to this one."

"He's not moved in hours," Peter remarked, realizing now the spots of color in Neal's cheeks were fever induced. "Is that the morphine?" He'd never seen Neal so still for so long; it was unnerving.

"The morphine is just keeping him comfortable so he can rest," she explained. "So his body can recover from the trauma it's experienced. That's the best thing he can do right now. He'll be more awake tomorrow; there's nothing to be concerned about."

When she had finished, Peter followed Elizabeth's suggestion and asked if she could supply some basic toiletries. "All of this was kind of unexpected," he explained, nodding at Neal. "I didn't even bring a go bag."

He had one in the trunk of his Taurus, but that hadn't been the vehicle he'd driven. It was still parked at the Federal Building in New York.

"Not a problem," she replied. She gestured to the portable storage cabinet across the room. "There are an extra pillow and blanket in there; feel free to use them. The recliner is pretty comfortable, too."

It wasn't long before the CNA assigned to Neal brought the requested items. Just before midnight, Peter moved from the chair into the recliner. He extended the foot rest, placed the pillow against the wall, and rested his head against it. The recliner wasn't as comfortable as the one in his living room, but it felt pretty good. It had been a long day.

Peter's sleep was light, and he felt he had just dozed off when the nurse entered about an hour later. He kept quiet as she did a rudimentary check on her patient, but when she looked up and met his eyes, she answered his question although he hadn't voiced it.

"The antibiotics are working," she informed him quietly. "His temperature is down."

After the nurse left, Peter, relieved that Neal's fever had abated, fell quickly back to sleep.

It wasn't the movement of someone in the room that awakened him the next time; it was a noise. It wasn't a shout but it was still a sound of distress.

The evening had passed peacefully and without incident but now, just after three in the morning, things had changed. Neal was sitting bolt upright on the bed, eyes open, a look of complete terror on his face. Peter, startled awake, sprung from the recliner. Freeing himself from the blanket that was entangling his feet, he was at Neal's side in seconds.

"Neal, I'm right here," he said quickly. "You're okay; _everything's_ okay."

An alarm on the monitor above the bed began to sound which only added to the panicked look on Neal's face. His eyes moved wildly around the room, and knowing Neal's first instinct when scared was always to run, Peter gripped his shoulders firmly to make sure he stayed put. Neal's breaths were coming in quick gasps, his face shining with sweat in the meager lighting of the room. Although the eyes were open, Peter didn't think Neal was seeing him, or the surroundings; he was seeing whatever nightmare had invaded his dreams.

Peter felt his own heart rate increasing as well. " _Neal_ ," he voice was insistent; he gave the shoulders a slight shake. " _Wake up_."

His tone of voice brought Neal's darting eye's to his face, and after a moment of wide-eyed confusion, recognition dawned in them.

" _Peter,_ " he whispered with breathless relief. Peter could feel him trembling as the tension drained from his body and he was guided back onto the pillow.

"Take it easy, buddy," Peter said gently, his own relief mirroring Neal's. "Everything's okay."

The nurse, having responded to the commotion, silenced the alarm on the monitor. Neal's heart rate, which had triggered it was now starting to decline. His respiration rate, however, remained accelerated. His breathing sounded as if he'd just completed a sprint.

"Are you in any pain, Mr. Caffrey?" she asked, studying Neal's face carefully.

"No," Neal's voice was low and his eyes dropped, the slight blush in his cheeks now from embarrassment instead of fever. "It was just a bad dream."

His words, as well as his disconcerted demeanor, tugged at Peter's heartstrings and from the expression on the nurse's face, pulled at her's as well.

"That's understandable," she assured him, checking the IV lines and then the machine itself. "Especially given what you've been through." She met Peter's eyes sympathetically, before returning her attention to Neal's down-turned face. "If you're sure you are okay, I'll get back to my rounds."

Neal raised his head, meeting her eyes sheepishly. "I'm okay," his smile was weak and not very convincing. "Sorry about that."

"As I said," she reiterated kindly. " _Perfectly understandable_. Try to sleep," she glanced at Peter, including him in her order, then continued to Neal. "You'll feel much better tomorrow; you'll see."

With that encouragement, and a reminder to press the call button if they needed anything, the nurse left them. Peter didn't doubt her forecast. Barring complications, Neal _would_ feel better tomorrow, and he'd continue to heal and grow stronger each day. _Physically._

But it was no longer the physical injuries Neal had sustained that most concerned Peter; it was the emotional ones. And those, he knew, dated much further back than a couple of days. Physically, Neal was on the road to recovery but Peter feared that emotionally, there was still a long road ahead for him.


	38. Chapter 38

_A day late, but Happy Thanksgiving!_

 **Chapter Thirty-Eight**

 _"Neal, Wake up!"_

Reality as he knew it faded, leaving Neal gazing into not evil, gloating eyes, but concerned ones. It was Peter's face inches from his own, and Peter's hands that were gripping him firmly by the shoulders, holding him in place. He was in a hospital bed and not in his bed in the small Chicago apartment. He was Neal and not Danny.

It was a just dream. A _nightmare._ One he hadn't had in years but had, not unsurprisingly, returned with the appearance of Terrence Eden in his life. It had always left him shaken, terrified, and sweat drenched. He'd wake himself with a shout, gasping for breath with his heart pounding wildly in his chest. It would take several moments for him to get his bearings and for the panic to subside. The nightmare always signaled the end of his night no matter what the time of its occurrence, and until this moment, he had always awakened from it _alone._

But he wasn't alone this time. Peter was here. " _Peter."_

"Take it easy, buddy," Peter said, easing him back against the pillows. "Everything's okay."

Peter's voice, his presence, and even his touch ease Neal's panic almost instantly but his heart continued to pound. It took him several seconds to remember why he was in a hospital bed. He remembered the beating and boots hammering into him as he lay curled on the floor. He had a vague memory of a doctor telling him that he'd had surgery to repair damage to his lung and his spleen and a clearer, more disturbing memory of a plastic tube being pulled from an incision in his chest. Eden had wanted him dead and had begun what promised to be a long, painful process, but his plans had been derailed. He didn't know how, but somehow Peter had rescued him; had found him. Peter always managed to find him even when he didn't want to be found. But this time, he had wanted nothing more.

"Are you in any pain, Mr. Caffrey?" A woman's voice brought Neal's thoughts to focus. It wasn't just Peter that was with him; there was someone else, too. Her face, like Peter's, wore a look of concern. A name tag clipped to her shirt identified her as hospital staff and the dinging sound permeating the room stopped when she turned the volume down on the monitor. Now she waited for his response.

He had probably cried out or shouted; that was why both the woman and Peter were at his side, looking at him in concern. Had they taken his cry to have been one of pain?

He had cried out in pain but not the physical kind. Physically he felt pretty good. He imagined the IV bags hanging beside him had something to do with that.

"No," he managed to say, feeling his cheeks burn. "It was just a bad dream."

"That's understandable," the woman assured him. "Especially given what you've been through." There was a pause. "If you're sure you are okay, I'll get back to my rounds."

"I'm okay," he said. She didn't seem convinced, so he added a smile. That usually worked. Especially with the ladies. "Sorry about that."

"As I said," she returned. "Perfectly understandable. Try to sleep; you'll feel much better tomorrow; you'll see."

She said something about the call bell and left, but Peter remained at his post by his bedside. Feeling Peter's eyes on him, Neal looked up to find the older man studying him. It wasn't the first time he'd found himself the subject of Peter's examination, but usually, the expression Peter wore was one of suspicion, distrust or wariness. But his expression now was different; Neal saw concern and gentle understanding. Already distressed, Neal himself felt a rush of emotions at the compassion in Peter's eyes; relief, security and most of all, gratitude. Unprepared, Neal's eyes stung, and he felt a lump rise in his throat. Horrified that tears would soon follow, he quickly looked away.

"Want to talk about it?" Peter asked.

Neal knew he was referring to the dream that had just disturbed them all and he had to swallow a couple of times before he secured a reply.

"No," he managed to say. "It was just a...just a-," He stammered, his throat tightening again and choking off his words.

"A bad dream," Peter supplied when words failed him. "I know, but talking about it might help," he paused. "I'm willing to listen."

Peter's concern seemed genuine, his offer sincere but Neal didn't want to talk about the dream; he didn't want to _think_ about it.

Afraid to meet Peter's gaze with his emotions so volatile, Neal took hold of the blanket that lay across him. He pulled it up, wishing he could pull it over his head and hide until he could get himself together. But knowing that wouldn't solve anything, he stopped mid chest instead.

"I know you are," Neal replied, his voice shaking slightly, "but I don't _want_ to talk about it." He gripped the blanket tightly and glanced at Peter with pleading eyes. "Please, Peter, just let it go."

Peter's brow furrowed slightly at his request but, thankfully, he backed off both literally and figurative.

"Okay, Neal," he conceded gently, stepping away from the bed and retrieving a blanket that had been dropped to the floor. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I was just offering an ear." He tossed the blanket onto the recliner that sat in the corner. The recliner's foot rest was still extended; a pillow lay in the seat. From Peter's tired expression and rumpled look, he not only had rescued him but he'd apparently stayed by his side since. Neal guessed that was where Peter had been when his nightmare had disturbed him.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Neal commented, managing to keep his voice steady this time. "Please, if you can, sit down over there and get some sleep. I'm fine now, really."

Neal was glad Peter had stayed with him; his presence was comforting. But every time Peter looked at him with compassion he had to swallow the lump in his throat and fight back tears. He could feel himself shaking, not only on the outside but the inside as well. He needed some privacy, some space. He needed time to regroup and get his emotions in line. The only thing worse than feeling so out of control was feeling that way in front of someone. Especially in front of Peter.

Peter made no move to act on Neal's suggestion and instead, returned to his post. Again, Neal felt himself the subject of Peter's gaze but this time, he didn't dare meet the man's eyes. He really wished he would take the hint and take a _nap_. He didn't know how much longer he could hold it together if Peter kept being so uncharacteristically _nice_ to him _._

"Fine, huh?" Neal knew by Peter's tone that he wasn't buying it. Peter wasn't easy to fool under the best of circumstances and in his current state, Neal knew he wasn't presenting much of a challenge. "You're shaking like a leaf," Peter pointed out, "and hanging on to that blanket like your life depends on it; you are _not fine,_ Neal."

Confronted, Neal looked at his hands; Peter was right, his knuckles were white. He wasn't okay; he was weak and transparent, and Peter could see right through him. Tears began to form in his eyes and his throat tightened, making a reply impossible. He swallowed hard and tried to blink back the tears. He felt Peter's hand on his shoulder.

"And no one _expects_ you to be," Peter insisted. The grip on his shoulder tightened slightly. " _I_ don't expect you to be."

Those words were all it took. Tears Neal had been trying to hold back since he'd awakened now escaped his eyes and there was nothing he could do to stifle them. He wasn't even sure why he was crying; he just felt overwhelmed. Any number of emotions, some quite contradictory, filled his heart and now overflowed, streaming down his cheeks and onto the pillow beneath him.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, "I don't-"a sharp intake of breath cut off his explanation; his tears were no longer silent. His breath began to catch in his throat. It was humiliating but he could do nothing to stop it. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, ashamed at his loss of control.

He could feel Peter patting his shoulder and heard him mumble _It's okay_ several times before the wave of emotions finally began to subside. His tears stopped, but he continued to sniffle and the embarrassing hiccup remained. He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to face Peter after such a spectacle. Peter's hand left his shoulder.

"Here," Peter said after a few moments. Neal opened his eyes to see a pro-offered Kleenex. He reluctantly accepted it, dabbing at his eyes before pulling the oxygen from his face and wiping his nose. Again, the entire thing was humiliating. He felt like a little kid.

"Sorry," he mumbled again, trying to regain at least a little dignity. "I don't know what's _wrong_ with me." He kept his eyes down, but this time, at least, he was able to complete his thought.

"You were _kidnapped,_ Neal," Peter said gently. "You've been through a lot and on top of that, you were _drugged;_ they gave you ketamine. It's mostly worn off," he continued, "but the doctor said you'd feel the effects for a few days."

" _What_ effects?" Neal asked, finally daring to meet Peter's eyes.

"Well, nightmares for one thing," Peter told him. He nodded at the kleenex clutched in Neal's hand. "And you'll feel more _emotional_ than usual. Don't sweat it," He added quickly, seeing Neal's look of distress. "It _will_ pass. Just give it a little time."

Neal had heard of ketamine; used recreationally by some it was more often used as a date rape drug. That was what he'd been given outside June's that first afternoon. He'd immediately been unable to move, or speak, and then he knew nothing at all until he awakened tied to the chair. But that was the only time he remembered being given anything. Surely it wouldn't still be affecting him now. How long ago had that been? His concept of time was unclear.

"How _much_ time?" Neal pressed. It was a relief to know there was an external factor involved but it was still concerning to think he could burst into tears at any moment. "They gave me that the first day," he explained. "How long will this be a _thing_?"

"You were dosed _twice_ , Neal," Peter explained. "Once when they grabbed you and then again yesterday afternoon."

Neal took a moment to think that over. He felt he had a pretty clear memory of everything that had happened up until Sunday afternoon when Eden discovered his acts of duplicity. After that, things had gotten very unpleasant. He remembered the beating that followed, his conversation with Andrew and being closed inside the trunk. He had little memory of the events that followed and what memories he did have were disjointed and unclear. He wasn't sure what had actually happened and what he'd imagined. Now he understood why. Somewhere in there, he'd been drugged again.

"How long have I been here?" He asked, looking around the room. "And where _is_ here?"

"You were admitted yesterday afternoon, Sunday," Peter answered. "and this is Good Samaritan Medical Center, just outside Sloatsburg."

"Sloatsburg?" Neal repeated. He had never heard of Sloatsburg but he guessed it was somewhere on the route to Chicago.

"Upstate New York," Peter explained. "About an hour out of the City." At Neal's questioning look, he continued. "We learned Eden planned to fly back to Chicago; We were waiting when he got to the hangar. You were in the trunk of his car."

He hadn't been in the trunk alone; how could he have forgotten about the boy?

"Andrew," He said suddenly, picturing the young man in his mind. "He was in there with me; is he okay?"

"He's fine," Peter assured him, pulling a chair closer to the bed and sitting down. "but he wasn't in there when we found you; he escaped before Eden got to the hanger." He paused, "You _told_ him to. And told him _how_."

"I did?" Neal remembered telling Andrew to be ready to run if the opportunity presented itself, but at the time he hadn't known they'd be traveling in the trunk of a car.

"You told him how to open the trunk," Peter related, "and that if the car slowed down or stopped, he should pop it, get out and get away. And that's what he did."

Although being told about a conversation he'd had and had no memory of was disturbing, Neal was glad that Andrew had gotten away. He guessed the boy's escape had lead to his own rescue. Otherwise, Peter would have been standing around the parking garage waiting for a call that would never come.

"He's a tough kid, brave." There was a pause before he framed his next inquiry. "And what about Eden? Did you get him?"

"He was arrested without incident," Peter answered with satisfaction. "along with several of his accomplices. He's back in New York locked in a cell as we speak."

Peter was pleased with the outcome but Neal was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment; not that Eden had been arrested but that he wasn't dead.

"You'll need to give a statement as soon as you are up to it," Peter finished.

"Of course," Neal replied, feeling his eyes begin to droop. "Any time you want to take it, I can give it."

"I won't be the one taking the statement, Neal," Peter informed him a bit reluctantly. "Agent Littleton will be handling that. He's lead on the case."

That news surprised Neal. He couldn't imagine Peter taking a backseat in any case, much less this one. And the name was unfamiliar. " _Who_?"

"Agent Littleton, Cyber Crimes," Peter replied. "He's a good guy," he added. "and _smart._ He reminds me a bit of you."

Peter wasn't one to toss out compliments, especially in his direction, so Neal was pleased by the inference.

"Well, then I'm sure he's an _exceptional_ agent," he replied. "but aside from that, why is he the lead and not you?"

"It was already his case," Peter replied after a slight pause. "He's been investigating Eden in Chicago for suspected involvement in online security breaches of several financial institutions."

Yes, Neal remembered, Eden had evolved over the years; had upgraded his operations. The real target of the robbery at the Danford Building had been Bradford & Donnelly, an investment firm. Definitely in the jurisdiction of Cyber Crimes.

"Well, I don't know much about that part," Neal admitted. He could feel himself losing focus, growing more fatigued. "But I'll tell him what I can."

"That's all he needs," He heard Peter reply. "just a summation of the events as you remember them." There was a pause. "Think you can go back to sleep now?"

Neal's eyes, which had closed without his knowledge, snapped open at the question.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter assured him with a half smile. "it's almost four o'clock in the morning. Sleep if you can. Like the lady said: you'll feel better tomorrow."

Neal was surprised to feel relaxed enough to sleep but he knew he only felt that way because Peter was with him. Like it or not, Peter made him feel safe.

"Thanks for staying with me, Peter," Neal mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open. "Sorry you have to sleep in a chair."

"No worries, Neal," He heard Peter reply. "I do it every Sunday."


	39. Chapter 39

_Thanks to all who continue to read, review, and offer insight and encouragement. It means more than you know._

 **Chapter Thirty-Nine**

Peter moved across the room to the sink and splashed water onto his face. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he smoothed his hair down as best he could, but two days without a shave, and still wearing jeans and the Brighton Barons Sweatshirt, he looked more like a hobo than a federal agent.

He was exhausted. Even after Neal had fallen asleep, he hadn't been so lucky. He had sat in the recliner for nearly an hour, watching Neal sleep, before finally dozing off himself. He had a lot on his mind. His conversation with Elizabeth had played over in his head; he felt he had missed his best opportunity to talk to Neal about what was coming. He knew he had to, but he'd been struggling with how best to do it given Neal's fragile emotional state. But after the nightmare, Peter hoped with a little prodding Neal might bring up the subject of his past with Eden himself. He had no doubt it was a factor in his dream. The ICU hadn't exactly been quiet, but it was quieter than usual. The overhead fluorescent light was off, and the room was dim. It was as close to a private, comfortable atmosphere as they were likely to get. Neal's defenses were down, and if ever he was going to open up, this would be the time. With that in mind, Peter had offered to listen, had opened that door, but Neal had refused to walk through it.

The second opportunity had come when he'd told Neal that Agent Littleton would be taking his statement but he had let that one go by as well. After witnessing another bout of tears, Peter simply hadn't had the heart to upset Neal again. He needed his rest, he'd told himself. He'd tell him in the morning.

Now, just a few hours later, morning had come. Neal was still sleeping and the hospital staff had changed shifts. Peter had seen the night nurse outside Neal's door briefing the incoming staff in his care. After several moments, the group had moved on to the next room. Room by room, patient by patient, they worked their way through the ICU. Peter had risen stiffly from the recliner, stretched a bit, and went to the sink to freshen up. He needed a shower, shave and a change of clothes. Hopefully, once Elizabeth arrived, he'd at least get two out of three. He also needed coffee and a trip to the bathroom, and not necessarily in that order.

"Good morning." Peter turned from the mirror; a young woman had entered the room and judging from the equipment she carried, Peter guessed she, like Sandy Watson before her, had come to collect a blood sample. At her greeting, Neal stirred and Peter moved back across the room to his side.

When the blue eyes opened, there wasn't a look of panic or alarm; just momentary confusion that quickly passed.

"I'm here for a blood draw," she explained, placing a plastic tote on the hospital table. "Sorry to start your day with a needle stick."

"S' okay," Neal mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep. She snapped on a pair of medical gloves and gathered her supplies. Next, she tightened a band around Neal's arm. "Please squeeze your fist, Mr. Caffrey," she directed. He did as she asked. "Again."

Neal squeezed several times as she pressed on the inside of arm looking for a good vein. Satisfied she had found a viable candidate, she sterilized the site and proceeded with her task. Neal flinched slightly but watched as she took not one, but three vials of blood from his arm. After she had finished she applied a bandage and then labeled each vial.

"All done," she said with a quick smile. She disposed of the needle and picked up the tote. "Sorry, I had to wake you."

"It's okay," Neal said again, his voice a bit stronger this time. He even managed a small smile. "Thanks."

"I'll get these to the lab," she said, returning a smile of her own. "I hope you feel better soon, Mr. Caffrey."

"How're you doing?" Peter asked after she left. Neal's hand had gone to his face, and he seemed to be inspecting the damage.

"My _face_ hurts," He commented almost absently, moving his jaw gently out and back. With the bruises, cuts and contusions on the usually pristine face, Peter imagined it did.

"I'm not surprised," Peter replied. "If it wasn't for that morphine drip," he nodded at the IV stand, "more than your _face_ would be hurting."

Neal frowned. "How bad is it?"

It was the first time he'd asked about his condition, and Peter took it as a sign that Neal was improving, not just physically, but mentally as well. He was thinking more clearly and hopefully; a clearer mind meant his emotions would also fall into line as the day progressed. That would make their impending conversation, as well as the meeting with Agent Littleton, much less difficult for all concerned.

"You were in pretty bad shape when we found you," Peter began, his words bringing back the memory of a bloody and barely breathing Neal. "You had several broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a ruptured-"

"No, Peter," Neal interrupted impatiently, his fingers pressing gingerly on his discolored cheekbone. "My _face_ ; how _bad_ is it?"

Peter looked at him in disbelief. "Are you seriously worried about your _face?_ "

"Well, yeah." Neal's serious look was replaced with a hesitant grin; he fingered his split lip. "It's one of my best features."

Peter could tell by the playful expression in the blue eyes that Neal was messing with him. That fact alone renewed his optimism that Neal was on the mend.

"Not _today_ ," He countered with mock regret. "You got this _bluish-green_ thing going; especially along the side of your jaw there."

Neal's reply was preempted by the arrival of hospital staff. Shift change complete, morning rounds had begun. Two ladies had entered his room. One went to the white board by the door, erasing the names from the previous shift and writing in the current ones. When she got to the box labeled _CNA_ , she wrote the name _Ashley_ and put a big smiley face beneath it. The other, the nurse Peter had seen briefed outside the door a half hour earlier, approached Neal. She wore a white jacket and had a stethoscope around her neck.

"Good morning, Mr. Caffrey," she greeted, pushing several keys on the IV machine. She then disconnected one of the bags from Neal's IV line and then removed it from the stand. "The Ciprofloxacin is complete," she explained, wrapping the trailing line around the bag and tossing it into the stainless steel receptacle marked _Medical Waste._

"The _what_?" Neal asked.

"You've probably heard it as _Cipro_ , it's an antibiotic," she explained. "Now that you're awake, you'll be switched to an oral form. Let's have a listen to that lung." She placed the stethoscope's tips in her ears and the bell end on Neal's chest. "Take a deep breath for me," she instructed. Neal complied, and she listened intently. After a few seconds readjusted its position. "Again." She repeated the process several times, a slight frown on her face.

She removed the tips from her ear and let the instrument dangle from her neck. "Do you have any pain, Mr. Caffrey?"

"No," Neal answered slowly as if trying to decide if he did or not. "I'm not _hurting_. My face is sore, though."

She reached down and touched Neal's face gently, turning his head slightly. She pressed on his discolored jaw. "You have bruising as well as minor cuts and abrasions," she stated. "I'll get you a topical analgesic cream. That should help."

"Thanks," Neal replied.

"How about your chest?" She asked, watching him carefully. "Any pain when you inhale or exhale?"

"No," Neal answered, taking a breath as if to see. "at least, not _much_."

The examination not yet completed, she produced a pin light from her pocket.

"Headache?" she inquired, checking first one eye and then the other. "Any dizziness?"

"No," Neal said a bit hastily, "I feel _fine._ How long until I can go home?" _Impatience._ Peter smiled. Neal was definitely back to being Neal.

 _"Home_?" she chortled with raised eyebrows. "Let's take this a step at a time, Mr. Caffrey, and the _first_ step is getting you released from the _ICU._ "

"When do you think that will happen?" Peter asked, wondering about how the day was going to shape up. "After the doctor sees him?"

There was a small shake of her head. "Dr. Allison has been delayed by an emergency," she informed them, "but I _have_ spoken with him. He's been pleased with the reports so far but he wants an eval from the Respiratory Therapist, and I think a follow-up x-ray is in order as well. Oh," she said. "Here he is now."

The _he_ was the Respiratory Therapist, and he'd arrived pushing an entire cart of equipment. The room was getting crowded, and seeing that Neal was going to be busy awhile, Peter decided it was a good time to step out.

"Hey Neal," he said. "I've got to make a couple of calls anyway, plus I need come coffee. I'll be back up in a little while, okay?"

"I'll be here."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The bathroom visit was at the top of the list but with that stop made, Peter headed to the cafeteria. He pulled out his phone and frowned at the _low battery_ warning on the screen. His phone charger, like his go bag, was in the Taurus back at the Federal Building. Knowing he may only be able to place only one call, he chose wisely.

"I was just getting ready to come your way," Elizabeth told him after the exchange of greetings. "I have a change of clothes and your shaving stuff; anything else you need?"

"Get my phone charger," Peter said, "It should be by the bed. My battery is almost dead, so if you lose me, that's why."

"I'll get it," she said. "How did things go last night? Did you get any sleep?"

"Some," Peter replied. "Neal seems better this morning; more like himself. They're doing some tests, but it looks like he'll be out of ICU and in a room soon."

"That's good," she replied. "Does that mean you'll be home tonight?"

"I hope so," Peter answered. "It depends on how things go. I'll know more later." He paused. "Thanks for coming up, El."

"You don't have to thank me," she replied warmly. "I want to come. See you in an hour or so."

After telling her to drive safely, he ended the call and stepped into the Courtyard Café. He had planned only on a cup of coffee, but once the whiff of bacon hit him, and he realized how hungry he was, he stepped into the buffet line. His battery at less than 10 %, he decided he'd wait until Elizabeth arrived to make the call to Agent Hughes.

His day presented several challenges. Neal wasn't the only one who was going to be required to give a statement. Regardless of how things had turned out, he'd have to talk to ORP about his actions, or rather his lack thereof, during those first crucial hours after Neal had gone missing. He had not followed protocol and they would want to know his reasons for not adhering to procedure. Hughes had said the first of the week, and with complaints lodged from both the NYPD and the US Marshals Service, Peter guessed that meant Monday. _Today._ His presences would be required. The fact that he'd slept less than five hours would have little bearing on the situation.

And he still had to talk to Neal. Elizabeth was right; he had to warn him, to let him know his past was no longer a secret. It would be unfair, even cruel, to allow him to be blindsided. Even if Agent Littleton didn't reference his history with Terrence Eden, the Agent from Chicago most certainly would. At least, Peter thought as he scooped eggs, hash-browns, and bacon onto his plate, Neal seemed in a better state to handle the unpleasant news that the past he'd buried had been resurrected. Still, it wasn't a task Peter looked forward to.

He found a seat by the window and ate his breakfast. Wondering how much time had passed since he'd left the ICU, he checked his phone for the time. The screen was black; he was officially out of touch until Elizabeth arrived. It was both a blessing and a curse. The clock on the cafe wall said eight forty-five. He'd been gone almost and hour. A refill of his coffee took him to nine and he returned then to the ICU.

When he arrived back at Neal's room, he found it empty. Neal, bed and all, were gone; he hoped it was just that they hadn't returned from tests, but stepped out and inquired just to be sure. When his assumption was confirmed, he returned to the room. He took a seat, picked up a magazine he'd borrowed from the waiting room the evening before, and waited for Neal's return.

"Where is Caffrey?" Peter looked up in surprise. Agent Donaldson stood in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, rising to his feet. The appearance of an Agent from Marshal Service was disconcerting. Especially _this_ agent.

"My _job,"_ Donaldson replied, echoing their earlier exchange. "Caffrey is off anklet," Donaldson continued. "I'm here to make sure he's secure."

"He's _secure_ ," Peter told him, tossing the magazine onto the chair. "I've been with him since he was pulled out of Terrence Eden's trunk."

"You're not with him _now,_ " Agent Donaldson pointed out.

"They've taken him for tests," Peter countered. "He'll be back soon."

"Is he restrained?"

" _What_?"

"Did you cuff him to the railing to prevent him from escaping again?"

Peter opened his mouth but then closed it. The questions irritated him but, like it or not, they were not out of line. Neal's release agreement clearly stipulated that he be monitored at all times, and he was in fact, _off ankle_ t. It was Agent Donaldson's job to make sure Neal remained securely in Federal Custody and Peter understood his concern. Neal's history made him a high-risk case. Even he, as a general rule, would never allow Neal off anklet without either direct supervision or an alternative method of tracking him. Yet at this particular moment, he couldn't argue the fact that Neal was both off anklet and unsupervised. Agent Donaldson had already formed a negative opinion of him and this situation would only confirm it. Again, he had let his personal feelings interfere with his job.

"I don't _have_ my cuffs," Peter said truthfully, "and Neal's in no _condition_ to escape. Plus," he added. "he didn't _escape_ in the first place; he was _kidnapped._ He's the victim here, Agent Donaldson."

"That may be true. However," Donaldson continued. "He is _still_ a convicted felon, and it's my responsibility to-"

"Excuse me, sir."

Agent Donaldson halted his discourse and stepped out of the way so that the bed could be rolled through the door. Neal had returned; safe and secure. The head of the bed was raised slightly, facing away so Peter couldn't see Neal's face but he did see Agent Donaldson's. The quick look of surprise that crossed it told Peter the man hadn't realized the extent of Neal's injuries. When the bed was back in its position, Peter saw that Neal's eyes were closed. Alert when he had left him, that was no longer the case.

"What happened?" Peter asked in some concern. The nurse had followed Neal into the room and now worked to settle him in.

"Nothing happened," she assured him, reconnecting the monitors and resetting the IV machine. "He's just weak, Agent Burke, and the tests tired him. That's all."

"How did they go?" Peter asked. "Did everything look okay?"

"Dr. Duval is reviewing the results of his respiratory assessment as well as the x-rays," she replied. "She'll be in to see Mr. Caffrey as soon as she speaks with Dr. Riley."

That did not answer his question. "Will he be discharged from the ICU this morning?" He pressed.

"That will be up to the doctors to determine," the nurse responded. "As I said, Dr. Duvall will be up soon."

Peter had the feeling that the test had given some cause for concern, but she wasn't going to share it. That, he knew, would be up to Dr. Duvall.

She left, and Peter waited for Agent Donaldson to resume his conversation. He did, but the topic had changed.

"What _are_ his injuries?" He regarded Neal's still form with a frown. Peter sensed the Agent too had picked up from the nurse that something was amiss.

"They worked him over pretty good," Peter nodded at Neal's battered face. "He has bruised, and broken ribs, one of them punctured his left lung. He had some damage to his liver and a ruptured spleen." He paused. "Another ten minutes in that trunk and he'd have been dead."

Agent Donaldson didn't immediately respond.

"I'll admit," he said after a pause, "he doesn't look like much of a flight risk, but policy _is_ policy, Agent Burke."

"I know," Peter admitted reluctantly. "Have the charges against him been dropped?"

A strict adherence to policy would dictate that a suspect in custody be restrained while receiving treatment in a medical facility. It was also within the purvue of the Marshal Service to have Neal moved from the hospital into the medical ward of the prison until he was cleared of any wrongdoing. Peter hoped that having seen Neal's condition first hand, Agent Donaldson would exercise his discretion and allow some leeway; show some compassion. But Peter remembered the total _lack_ of compassion the Marshals had shown for Neal after Kate had been killed.

"Not yet," Donaldson's head shake was slight, "And I don't anticipate that decision to be made until more information is gathered." He reached into his pocket; Peter expected him to pull out his cuffs but instead it was his phone. "I'll call and have another ankle monitor requisitioned. I can have it here within the hour." He met Peter's eyes. "Give me your _word_ you won't let him out of your sight, _even for tests_ , until he has it on."

Agent Donaldson hadn't shown much confidence in Peter's ability to do his job, so his words came as somewhat of a surprise, but it was a pleasant one.

"I'll stick to him like glue," Peter assured him. If Agent Donaldson wasn't going to cuff Neal to the bedrail, he wasn't likely to send him back to prison, either.

"Okay, then," Donaldson said. "His radius will be set to the bounds of the hospital until he's discharged; after that, he'll be confined to his residence until the investigation clears him."

 _Until_ and not _if_ ; that too, Peter felt, was an encouraging sign that the man's opinion of both he and Neal had shifted.

"That's more than fair," Peter replied. "You could make this a lot harder for him if you wanted to; I appreciate that you aren't doing that."

"It looks to me that he's had a hard enough time." Agent Donaldson commented as he moved towards the door. Once there, he turned back, looking at Neal with a thoughtful expression. "He doesn't look his age, does he?"

Peter didn't bother explain that Neal probably _wasn't_ his age or at least, not the age he claimed to be. All of that would come out soon enough.

"No," he answered. "He doesn't."


	40. Chapter 40

_Good grief this chapter didn't want to be written..._

 **Chapter Forty**

Neal awakened, somewhat embarrassed by his lack of stamina, shortly after Agent Donaldson's departure. Peter echoed the nurse's words about his understandably weakened state and told him that Dr. Duvall was going over the test results and would be up to discuss his condition soon. While they waited for her arrival, he told Neal about Agent Donaldson's visit and the reason for it. Learning that a newly requisitioned ankle monitor would be arriving soon didn't bother Neal, especially after hearing what the alternative arrangement for securing him could have been.

"Well," Neal said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. "I'm glad I didn't wake up cuffed to the bed then."

Peter watched as Neal continued to fidget. "You need something?" he inquired with concern.

"Is there another pillow?" Neal asked, looking about the room with a frown. "My _neck_ hurts."

Peter was surprised Neal was feeling any pain, given the morphine was still flowing into his veins, but he retrieved the pillow from the recliner. After a try or two, he got it positioned behind Neal's head in a way that seemed to work. "That better?"

"Yeah, thanks." Neal moved his neck against the pillow tentatively, a small scowl on his face. He glanced at Peter. "You'd think having you guarding me night and day would qualify as being _secured_."

Back to the topic of Agent Donaldson, Peter sighed. "Well," he admitted reluctantly, "my credibility with my counterparts at the Marshal Service, not to mention the NYPD, has taken a bit of a _hit_ lately. They weren't sure they could trust my judgment where you were concerned."

Neal looked pained at his words and dropped his eyes. "It _bothered_ me, you know," his voice was low. "Knowing you were going to get that call, knowing what you'd _think._ But even when I do stupid stuff," he again met Peter's eyes. "it's not _your_ fault. You shouldn't be blamed for something they think I _did._ "

"You're my responsibility, Neal," Peter explained to him for the hundredth time since he'd taken him on as his CI, "so anything you do is by definition-"

Desperate blue eyes locked on to Peter's. "But I didn't _do_ this." There was the slightest catch in his voice. "Well, I guess I _did,_ " his look was one of distress. "But I didn't have a _choice."_

Neal's expression, as well as his tone, told Peter that his emotions, although much more under control, were still just under the surface.

"I know that," Peter said, "and I think they do too, _now._ But the investigation is just getting started. It will take some time to sort everything out. Anyway," he continued, "The truth is that it wasn't what they thought _you_ did that caused my credibility problem, it was what I did, or rather," he added. "What I _didn't_ do."

"What do you mean," Neal's brows furrowed in curiosity. "What did you do, or _not_ do?"

"I knew you were missing before the robbery and I didn't notify the Marshal Service," Peter stately simply.

"You knew _before?_ " Neal's expression had changed from curious to surprised. " _How_? He said no one knew; that no one was looking for me."

That may have been the case when Neal was young and alone, but it was not the case now.

"Well, he was _wrong,_ " Peter told him. "Jones and I were at the office trying to track you down when I got the call."

"How did you know I was missing?" Neal asked again. "Did you _physically_ check up on me?"

"You know my motto," Peter replied with a smile. " _Trust but verify._ But no, that isn't how I found out. Actually," he went on to say, "Mozzie is the one who let the cat out of the bag so to speak. He called the house Saturday afternoon looking for you."

"Mozzie."

"Yeah, he thought you were working, that a case had come up." Peter confirmed. "Elizabeth said he sounded worried."

Neal nodded thoughtfully. "I missed our Friday night chess match."

"Yeah, he mentioned something about that." Peter frowned, remembering Jones observation of Neal's apparent lack of a social life. "Is that what you do on Friday nights? _Play chess?_ "

"Chess sharpens critical thinking skills," Neal defended. "It requires observation, analysis, and concentration. Plus," he added with a slight shrug, "it _relaxes_ me."

None of what Neal had just described equated to relaxation in Peter's mind, but since Mozzie was involved, it likely included a bottle of good wine as well. Still, he'd take a cold beer, a ball game and snuggling with his beautiful wife on the sofa. That, to him, equaled a relaxing Friday night.

"I tried to call you but I didn't get an answer," Peter said, continuing with the recap, "so I pulled up the data from the anklet. It said you were at home," Peter shook his head. "but Elizabeth noticed something odd about your movements. I watched more carefully and when I realized the tracking data was running on some kind of a loop, I went to Riverside Drive to see if you were there."

"And I wasn't," Neal muttered. "You know Andrew's mother works with SecureAlert, right?" he asked with a frown. "They program..."

"Tracking devices for the U.S. Marshal Service," Peter finished. "I know."

"She altered the data," Neal supplied. "They told her they'd kill her son if she didn't. She didn't have a choice."

"I know that too," Peter replied. "I talked to Andrew yesterday, and Jones spoke with his mother. They're both going in to give their official statements this morning."

He looked at Peter again with curiosity. "So you knew the tracker wasn't working and that I wasn't where I was supposed to me _before_ I walked into the Danford Building."

"Yes," Peter confirmed. "A few _hours_ before. After I talked to June and Mozzie, I called Jones. He met me at the office and we starting trying to find you."

"And you didn't notify the Marshal Service," Neal stated, shaking his head in disbelief. "You, _Agent Peter Burke_ , didn't follow procedure." He seemed bewildered at the thought. " _Why_? Why didn't you call them?"

Neal wasn't the only one who would be asking that question. It would be the primary topic of discussion at the formal inquiry that loomed in his immediate future, and he'd better have a good answer. His reasons were both simple and complicated, but now wasn't the time to sort out his mixed motivations.

"I wasn't sure what was going on," that was true enough, "and Mozzie and June were convinced you hadn't run. In fact, after June's description of the men and their black SUV, Mozzie was convinced you'd been kidnapped by some rogue faction of the government."

"Well, they did look like Federal Agents," Neal admitted. "Did June see them take me?"

"No," Peter told him. "She just saw them talking to you. But we'll get her in to give a statement as well."

"Speaking of statements," Neal began. "When is Agent-" He frowned. "What's his name, the one from Chicago?"

"Littleton," Peter supplied.

"When is Agent Littleton taking mine?" He asked. "The sooner the charges against me are dropped, the better I will feel. I want this _over._ "

Peter knew it was far from over. His statement to Agent Littleton was just the beginning.

"Later today," Peter replied. "Look, Neal," he added uneasily. "we need to talk."

The first step, Peter had been told, was always the hardest and finally, he'd taken it.

Neal's eyebrows raised slightly at the declaration. "I thought that's what we were doing."

"Well, yeah, we _are_ but..." Peter faltered. Neal's emotional state was still questionable and this subject would likely distress him.

"What is it?" Neal's look of curiosity had changed to one of concern; his voice now dropped with dread. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is _wrong_ ," Peter stumbled on, trying to recover. He had started and he had to finish. "But I need to tell you something, and I don't want you to freak out."

Neal's eyes widened in apprehension, his arms crossed his body, his left hand grasping his right wrist. It was an instinctive, self-protective gesture. "That doesn't sound encouraging."

This conversation, however difficult, had to take place. Elizabeth would be arriving at any moment and Agent Littleton's visit would follow later in the afternoon. He could put it off no longer; there was never going to be a _good_ time and no easy way to bring it up.

"I know about you and Terrence Eden," Peter blurted out. "I know you worked for him back in Chicago."

There. He said it and having done so, he waited for Neal's reaction. He expected he'd _tear_ up, or _close_ up; cry or deny. He'd either be _Danny_ or _Neal._

Neal's mouth tightened, and his nostrils flared, his blue eyes widening in alarm. But this time, no tears appeared, and after mere seconds, his eyes grew distant, his expression transforming into one of cool placidity.

"I don't know who you've talked to," he sounded remarkably calm, "but you've been given bad information."

So it was _Neal_ and not _Danny,_ Peter thought, and his strategy for dealing with his past coming to light was simply to deny it's existence. It was pretty much how Peter expected him to handle it but he also knew any denying, lying or evading would not be tolerated during the investigation. It was better Neal realize that wouldn't work before he tried it on Agent Littleton, or worse yet, the Agent from the Violent Crimes Division. Neal needed to be forthcoming and cooperative, but Peter knew it would take him some time to get from _here_ to _there_. That's why this conversation was taking place now; it was a process, and Neal would need time, and help, getting through it.

"I know you don't want to deal with this," Peter acknowledged as gently as he could, "but you _have to_ ; you're going to be asked about it and you can't just pretend it didn't happen."

There was a brief pause before Neal responded. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, wearing a look of mild bafflement. "It must be a case of mistaken identity or something."

Neal seemed composed and spoke with convincing sincerity, but Peter knew it was an act. Neal wasn't calm. He was shaken, upset; he _had_ to be. But in typical Neal fashion, he was hiding his anxiety by controlling his responses, his expressions, and even his movements. He had maintained eye contact during their exchange and kept his voice steady and calm. His hands had remained perfectly still, clasp loosely across his midsection. He hadn't looked away or fidgeted, and his face showed no obvious signs of distress. Still, Peter saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead and noticed his chest rose and fell a bit rapidly. Neal may be able to control his _outward_ reactions, but he couldn't control the _inward_ ones. Peter glanced at the monitor; still wired up, Neal's vitals were on display. In spite of his calm demeanor, Neal's heart rate, respiration and blood pressure all had accelerated.

"You get an A for effort," Peter said, his eyes dropping sympathetically to Neal's face. "But you do know you're basically hooked up to a lie detector, don't you?"

There was a faltering in the blue eyes, a slipping of the mask, and for the first time, Neal looked away.

"I'm not lying," He said quietly, his hands, once still, held his attention as he plucked at the blanket. "It's a mistake; that's all."

His voice lacked its earlier conviction; his air of confidence quickly fading.

"It's okay," Peter put a reassuring hand on Neal's arm. "You're not in _trouble,_ Neal. You were just a kid; you were alone and I know he used that-"

"You don't know _anything!"_ Neal erupted _._ Peter wasn't sure if it was anger or shame that burned Neal's cheeks. "I _told_ you," Neal insisted, "I don't know _who_ you've talked to, or where you're getting your information but," his voice shook, " _it'_ s _not true."_

Having been informed of the protracted effects of the drug Neal had been given, Peter wasn't surprised that Neal had lost his tenuous grip on his emotions. Peter had actually been impressed that he'd managed to keep them under control as long as he had. It was a testament to Neal's fortitude, his strength of will; something Peter had always admired. Peter hated to add to the anguish he saw in Neal's face it but he had no choice; Neal had to stop running from his past. He had to face it and it was better to do so now, with a friend, than later with an agent intent on making his case.

 _Help him handle it._ That was what Elizabeth had said and that was what he was going to do. Peter picked up the envelope Agent Littleton had sent over and removed the photo.

"Yes, _it is,_ " Peter asserted firmly, holding the photo out so Neal could see it. "Remember this?"

Peter doubted Neal had any idea that tangible evidence of his life in Chicago existed. That is why the strategy of denial seemed a safe bet. Ten years was a long time; any identification could be challenged and without proof, it would be a one person's word against another's. But there _was_ proof and here it was; in black and white.

Peter sensed Neal's shock and a glance at the monitor showed his heart rate, already elevated, had ticked upward; Peter was glad the volume was still turned down.

He dropped the photo onto the bed in front of Neal. "It was taken at the Precinct in Chicago the day you left the letter on the detective's desk." He waited for a response and when none came, he continued with his intervention. "The letter telling about Terrence Eden's involvement in a human _trafficking_ ring."

Neal still said nothing; his eyes fixated on the photograph. Peter wondered if he was remembering leaving the letter or the beating he'd received beforehand.

"I have the letter, too," Peter told him, pulling it from the envelope. "What me to read it? To refresh your memory?"

Finally, there was a reaction, but it was a non-verbal one; eyes still downcast, Neal shook his head.

"I know your handwriting, Neal," Peter said, placing both the envelope and the letter on the table. "So I know didn't just deliver that letter, you _wrote_ it. You did work for Terrence Eden; you were his forger."

Peter could tell by the change in Neal's breathing, as well as the tremor in his hands, that he was again on the verge of tears. Having his past lain out before him like this had taken a toll. Neal broke his silence with a shaky voice.

"That's not _me_. _"_

Peter frowned at his words, unclear of what Neal hoped to gain from such a statement. Of course, it was him, there was no denying it. Neal didn't often lie, at least not outright, and he never lied to _him_. He might deflect or equivocate, but he didn't _lie;_ it was a fundamental principle of their relationship.

Neal looked up from the photo, his eyes pleading for Peter to believe him. Peter's brows furrowed in concern. This wasn't lying; it was something else. He wondered if he had pushed Neal too hard, if the young man had moved from denial into outright delusion.

" _That's not me,"_ Neal said again. Tears spilled from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks; he wiped them impatiently. "That's _not_ who I am."

Peter then understood. Neal wasn't lying and he wasn't delusional. The boy in the photo _wasn't_ him; it was _Danny,_ and to Neal, it was important that Peter knew the difference. Danny had been alone, scared and vulnerable. He'd been emotionally manipulated and exploited as a member of Eden's criminal organization. He had also been brutalized, not just back in Chicago but in the here and now. Peter knew the beatings Neal had recently endured had been as emotionally damaging as they had been physical.

They had brought his past into the present, painfully reminding him of a time when he had been the boy in the photograph; when he had been alone and afraid.

When Neal had been distraught earlier his emotions had overwhelmed him and Peter had been there to console him. But this time was different. Although he was upset, Neal was determined to maintain a semblance of control. He fought to keep his tears in check, swallowing, sniffing and repeatedly wiping them away whenever they escaped. He didn't seem to need, _or want,_ comforting.

What Neal wanted was _respect_ , even understanding, but he didn't want _pity_. He didn't want to be seen as a victim.

"I know you're not that kid anymore," Peter stated, retrieving the photo from the bed and placing it with the letter. "But what you _are_ is a material witness in _two Federal cases_ against Terrence Eden." There was more than one way to comfort Neal; to ease his pain. "He's going to prison for the rest of his life, with no chance of parole." He met Neal's eyes. "And you get to the be the one to send him there. Now," he added. "it's _his_ turn to be afraid."

It was payback, and it was long overdue.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter Forty-One**

Peter hoped that reframing the situation would help Neal realize that he, and not Eden, was now in the position of power. Neal needed a purpose, a sense of control; something to lessen the feeling of helplessness he was experiencing.

It was going to be a tricky balancing act, this process with Neal. He had buried pain to deal with, emotions he'd stuffed for years that were bound to come to the surface. There would be times when, like earlier, those emotions would overwhelm him and be expressed through cathartic tears. When that happened, Neal needed someone to be there for him, someone to offer gentle comfort while preserving his dignity. But there would be other times, too. Times when he didn't want comfort. Times when instead he needed a firm reminder that he wasn't that kid anymore; that he was a grown man with a job to do.

Peter didn't feel very proficient in the first role but felt more than able to fulfill the second; it was just a variation of the _Cowboy-Up_ approach he routinely employed. The trouble was in discerning the right time to switch between the two and his ability to effectively do so.

The FBI was counting on Neal's cooperation to solidify their case against Terrence Eden and his testimony to send him to prison. But to Peter, it wasn't just about getting a conviction, about another Federal win. It was about setting things right, not just for Neal, but for all those Eden had used and abused over the years. It was an opportunity for Neal to move from _victim_ to _victor_ and to experience the healing power of justice instead of just its sting.

Peter looked for a flash of triumph in Neal's eyes or satisfaction on his face but found neither one.

He sighed. It wasn't like having the power to put Eden away was a new development; Neal had that for nearly a decade. He had just chosen not to use it. His reasons for holding back, for not cashing in that bargaining chip, was still largely unknown. But by the look of ambivalence on his face, Peter guessed that Neal was presently contemplating them. Neal's eyes went to the folder on the bedside table.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Peter handed him the box of kleenex. "From the Chicago police department," he informed. "Agent Littleton dug it up looking for background on Terrence Eden."

"So," Neal removed a couple of tissues then placed the box on the overbed table. "it's a file on Terrance Eden?"

His eyes added _and not me?_ But the words weren't spoken. Peter knew, just as he had when he'd seen the file in Agent Littleton's hand, Neal feared it was information on him.

"Yes," Peter assured him. "It's on Terrence Eden."

"It's not very _thick,"_ Neal observed, drying his face and giving his red nose another swipe.

"Well, this is just information on one, truncated investigation," Peter explained. "The investigation your _letter_ started. Agent Littleton's file is substantially larger, believe me."

"Oh." Neal mulled that over and after a moment, his brow furrowed. "Other than a photograph," he ventured questioningly, "is there anything _else_ in there about _me_?"

Neal wanted to know how much about him had been uncovered during the investigation, but this was dangerous territory. Peter should not be discussing the cases, or disclosing information contained in the case files, until after Neal's statements had been taken. Doing so could damage the case by calling into question the veracity of Neal's testimony. He'd already said more than he should have. As an Agent, Peter knew that, but as Neal's friend, he didn't care. Neal deserved fair warning.

"Nothing specific," Peter told him. "They tried to find out who you were, _where_ you were but you just disappeared. They thought Eden might have, you know, gotten _rid_ of you."

"Well," Neal mumbled, "It took him awhile, but he almost _did._ "

"I know," Peter acknowledged. "When I opened that trunk..." his voice trailed off, again shaken by the memory. "Another five minutes, Neal, and I would have been _too late."_

It was true and Peter knew it. Another five minutes and he would have opened the trunk and found Neal _dead_.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting." Their exchange was cut short by Dr. Duvall's arrival.

"Still here, I see," she said to Peter as she approached. Then she addressed her patient. "Mr. Caffrey," she began, "I'm Dr. Duvall. I am in charge of your care."

"Call me Neal, please."

"Okay, Neal," she accommodated with a small smile. "How are you feeling? Any pain? Difficulty breathing?"

"No," he said. "I feel okay." At least he hadn't said he was _fine_ , Peter thought.

"Good," she said. Just as the nurse had done before, Dr. Duvall pulled the blanket down and placed her stethoscope on Neal's chest. After the usual requests for Neal to breath deeply, and after listening in several locations, she finished her task.

"Mr. Caffrey," At Neal's look, she corrected herself. " _Neal,_ the blood tests this morning showed your white blood count was elevated," she put away the stethoscope and pulled up the blanket. "and x-rays confirmed there is some fluid in your lungs."

"Should I be worried?" Neal asked with a frown. Peter wasn't sure how much about his injuries Neal really knew. They'd been gone over at various times, but Neal's state of mind had been questionable.

"I discussed it with both Dr. Allison and Dr. Riley," she replied, "and we aren't overly concerned at this point. We're going to release you from ICU and get you into a more comfortable room; then we'll start another IV of the Cipro and see where we go from there. Now that you are more alert," she continued. "I'd like to go over a few things with you, okay?"

Peter was pleased when she spent the next several minutes explaining to Neal, much as she had to Peter the day before, the extent of his injuries. As she spoke, Peter again felt his anger rise at the brutal way Neal had been abused and how close he'd come to dying in the trunk of Eden's car. But Neal himself appeared unaffected by the detailed description he remained silent and, though Peter tried to gauge how he was handling it, his expression remained largely stoic. Dr. Duvall then explained the treatment Neal had received, the reparative surgery he'd undergone, as well as the medications that had been administered since his arrival at the hospital. Following that, she returned to the topic of the drug he'd been given by his captors; Ketamine. She explained how it affected both the mind and the body, and how long Neal was likely to feel its effects.

"I know you had a rough night and that you're feeling more emotional than usual..." her words caused a crack in Neal's facade; his face flushed, and he looked away. Seeing his reaction, she placed a hand on his arm in sympathy. "It's completely normal, Neal," she assured him, "and it _will_ lessen. You'll be more stabilized, and feel more in control, as the day goes on. However," she continued, glancing at Peter as if to include him in the warning, "keep in mind you may still have emotional ups and downs, and the nightmares could continue for several days. If they persist and cause you to be unable to rest, we can prescribe a medication to help. In the meantime, I'd advise you not to make any important life decisions for a couple of weeks." She waited for Neal to speak, but keeping his eyes downcast; he said nothing. "Do you have any questions?"

Neal shook his head but then one came to mind; he met her eyes. "How long do I have to stay here?" He asked. "When can I go home?"

Dr. Duvall frowned at the unanticipated inquiry. Of course, it didn't surprise Peter in the least; it was the same question Neal posed to the nurse.

"If everything goes well," she replied, "and the Cipro eradicates any infection, you could be released as soon as tomorrow afternoon. But understand," she continued with concern on her face, "I've been speaking about your _physical_ condition and the physiological effects of Ketamine; both of those will _improve_ over time. But the _psychological_ effects of being victimized, if not dealt with, may _not._ In fact, they may get _worse_."

"I wasn't _victimized,"_ Neal snapped irritably, "and I'm fine _._ " His sharp denial, not to mention his condition, contradicted his very statement. Realizing as much, Neal's cheeks again flushed. _"I'll be fine,_ " he amended apologetically. "I just want to go home, sleep in my own bed, and forget this ever happened."

Neal's voice wavered. His eyes were pleading, his tone contrite, and his hopes completely unrealistic. It was, however, the way Neal dealt with trauma.

"I understand that," Dr. Duvall gave Neal's arm a gentle squeeze, "but a person doesn't forget something like this, Neal." She withdrew her hand and removed a brochure from the file. "While you're here, please consider taking advantage of our counseling program. We have volunteers trained in trauma-focused therapy; many of them have been where you are." She placed the brochure on the overbed table. "They'll _understand._ Just call this number and they'll send someone to talk with you."

"Okay," there was a pause. " _thanks_." Neal had no intention of calling the number and recognizing such, Dr. Duvall sighed.

"If you don't want to speak to someone here," she glanced at Peter, "at least talk to a _friend_. You'll never forget it, but talking about it will help you move _past_ it."

"His room is ready, Dr. Duvall." Two young men entered the room. "We can take him down as soon as you are finished here."

"I'm finished," Dr. Duvall told them. "Okay Neal," she concluded her visit. "They'll get you settled in and the antibiotics started. I'll be back to check in this afternoon"

"Thank you, Dr. Duvall," Neal replied. This time, his statement of gratitude sounded sincere.

"Consider what I said, Neal," her look was serious as she tapped the brochure. "It's not weakness to ask for help; sometimes it's the bravest thing a person can do."

With an encouraging nod to Peter, Dr. Duvall left the room. Outside the door, she spoke a moment with Ashley before disappearing out of sight.

"Looks like you are leaving us, Mr. Caffrey," Ashley said as she joined them. She removed the IV bag from the stand and lay it on the bed beside Neal, then detached the wires that anchored him to the room's equipment. When finished, she gave the go-ahead nod to the young men waiting and they proceeded with their task. She then looked at Peter.

"He'll be in room 236," she informed him. "If you'd like, you can just meet him there in say fifteen, twenty minutes? That will give them time to get him settled in."

Peter had promised not let Neal out of his sight and he intended to keep his word. The last thing he needed was for a Federal Marshal to show up with the new ankle monitor and find him having deserted his post.

"I'll just follow him down if you don't mind," Peter replied as Neal was rolled past him and into the hallway. "I can wait outside while they get him settled."

"Oh," Ashley's eyes widened in sudden understanding. " _Of course._ We were told there were special circumstances." She lowered her voice conspiratorily. "You're here to _protect_ him, aren't you?"

"Yes I am."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter trailed behind as Neal was moved from the ICU to his new location. The two men guiding them occasionally spoke to staff as they went, especially the young and pretty, but other than those brief exchanges, the trip was silent. Neal's eyes again seemed heavy and by the time they entered the elevator, they had closed; Peter wasn't sure if he was really that tired or just taking steps to avoid any further discussion. After all, none of their recent conversations had been very pleasant.

They exited at the second floor and Neal's bed was maneuvered around a sharp right turn, rolled past a small waiting area, and through a set of double doors. As they progressed down the hallway, Peter caught a glimpse of a clock. It was later than he expected; Elizabeth should have arrived by now. He knew any number of things could have delayed her, but he still worried. He didn't like being out of contact and once Neal was settled, he'd put the room phone to use and make a call.

As it turned out his concern for Elizabeth's safety was quickly alleviated. As they rounded the bend of the hallway, he saw Elizabeth had in fact arrived; she was waiting outside what Peter guessed was room 236. Her face lit up when she saw him but then registered shock at the sight of Neal. She paled, hand covering her mouth, as he was rolled past her into the room. Peter arrived at her side.

"Oh, _Peter,"_ she breathed, her eyes still fixed on Neal. He had planned to warn her, to prepare her for Neal's startling appearance, but he hadn't had the chance.

"It's okay, El," he stated, wrapping a reassuring arm around her shoulders. "I know he looks bad, but he's going to be okay."

The young men, in practiced precision, moved Neal deftly into the room's larger bed. "Excuse me, please."

They turned to see a nurse with a medical cart awaiting entry; they stepped out of the doorway and she pushed it through. Once inside, she turned back to Peter and Elizabeth.

"If you two want to get a cup of coffee or something," she offered, hand on the door. "We will get Mr. Caffrey settled in."

"We'll just wait out here," Peter said.

She frowned. "Are you Agent _Burke_?" His reputation had preceded him but she sounded skeptical.

"Yes, I am," he replied.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, "I was told to expect you but.." her eyes dropped to his sweatshirt, blue jeans and sneakers before settling again on his face. "I didn't realize," she stated. "It won't be long, twenty minutes tops."

"I was working _undercover_ ," Peter explained. "I wasn't _supposed_ to look like a Federal Agent."

"Then you are very good at your job, Agent Burke" she mused with a smile as the closed the door.


	42. Chapter 42

_Thanks to all who are reading this story and especially to those who take the time to leave me a review. They help more than you know. Happy New Year to all!_

 **Chapter Forty-Two**

As soon as the door closed, Peter gave Elizabeth a proper greeting and wrapped her in a tight hug. Although she looked on the verge of tears, the embrace was a much for his benefit as for hers. It had been a difficult twenty-four hours since he'd last seen her. He might be a no-nonsense, hard-nosed Federal agent but the source of his strength was Elizabeth. He'd seen a lot of disturbing things during his years in law enforcement and had heard about even more, but coming home to Elizabeth each night restored his hope. Her voice over the phone the past day had been a lifeline but nothing compared to holding her in his arms. He held her a long moment and then, fortified by her presence and the knowledge that a shave and a wardrobe upgrade were in his immediate future, he released her.

"It is so good to see you, El," he told her. "I was beginning to worry."

"I'm sorry, hon," she pulled her purse around, opened it and retrieved the requested phone charger. "I tried to call, but your phone was already dead."

"Yeah," he said, taking it and scanning the area for an outlet. "I've probably got half a dozen angry voice messages from Agent Hughes by now." Finding one a few feet away, he immediately put it to use. He placed the phone on the floor, then straightened as Elizabeth moved near. "Did you bring me a change of clothes?" he asked with a weary smile. "You see the treatment I've been getting."

"Yes, I did," she laughed, nodding towards the closed door. "I hung your suit in the closet; the rest of your things are in the duffle." She reached up, rubbing his scruffy face. "Including a _razor,_ " she added playfully.

"Thanks, El," he said. "Getting a shave and out of this-" he pulled at the shirt, "-and into something a little more _dignified_ will make this day much easier to face."

"I figured that would be true for Neal as well," she stated purposefully, "So I stopped by June's and picked up a few thing for him, too; that's why I was late."

"That was a good call," Peter commented. "They may let him out of here tomorrow, and he'll need something to wear home."

"So _soon_?" she frowned doubtfully, Neal's still figure fresh in her mind. "But he looks so..."

She let the sentence trail off, unsure of which adjective to choose. Peter could think of several that described Neal's appearance; hurt, weak, helpless.

And _young;_ one couldn't forget _young_. Even Agent Donaldson had been struck by it.

"That's what the doctor said," Peter assured her, opting not to mention the extra run of antibiotics that had been ordered. "Hopefully, he can go home tomorrow."

Home to house arrest, but Peter opted not to mention that, _either_.

"Well, I brought him something to wear _home_ ," Elizabeth told him, "but I also brought him a couple of pairs of socks, some underwear, and a pair of pajamas."

Peter smiled. For someone who reveled in attention, Neal could at times be very modest. Peter could practically see the blush creeping over his face when he learned Elizabeth had brought him _underwear._ "I'm sure he will appreciate that."

"Meeting with these agents is going to be hard enough without him having to do so dressed in a hospital gown," She declared. "Have you _talked_ to him?" She asked with a furrowed brows. "Does he _know_?"

"Yeah," Peter informed her. "He knows."

Elizabeth was curious as to how well Neal had handled the news that this part of his past had been exposed so Peter recounted the discussion as best he could. He explained Neal's initial denial and then the means by which he overcame it. He'd forgotten he hadn't told her about the file Agent Littleton had brought, the file he now held in his hand, so he gave her the gist of it as well. She listened, and he continued with the summation of morning's conversation.

"You know Neal," he concluded with an air of long-suffering. "He's wasn't exactly forthcoming, and I didn't press him."

"But you _warned_ him," she replied approvingly. "You let him know what was coming and that's what he needed. What time is Agent Littleton coming?"

"I have to call him," he glanced at his phone; the display still black. It hadn't yet charged enough to even power back on. "But this afternoon for sure."

"Do you think he'll be okay when they talk?" She asked with concern. "Will he cooperate with the investigation?"

"He will with this _current_ one," Peter replied with certainty. He was confident that Neal and Agent Littleton would do just fine. Neal's past with Eden might have been the reason he'd been kidnapped, but it had no bearing on the crimes Eden had recently perpetrated. Neal was only one of several witnesses and not even the most damaging one. That honor went to Bradford  & Donnelly's former _employee-turn-cyber-criminal_ Evan McAllister. But the other investigation was a different thing; it was _all about_ Neal's past with Eden. Everything Neal, by his own admission, had tried to pretend never happened. "It's the other one, _the older one,_ that I'm not sure how he plans to handle."

"What will they do if he refuses?" She ventured, "You know, to _cooperate?_ "

"They'll threaten to revoke his work release agreement and send him back to prison."

"Can they _do_ that?" Her eyes flashed in anger. "Send him back to _prison_?"

"Yeah, they _could_ ," Peter admitted reluctantly. "But Neal knows that," he added hastily, "so he's not going to _refuse to cooperate;_ I'm just not sure how _helpful_ he'll actually be."

From what Peter had gathered, any chance of building a prosecutable case for the trafficking charges relied on finding the writer of the letter and securing his testimony. Peter was sure Neal was that writer but nothing in the investigation supported that; it pointed to some middle-aged office worker with access to legal documents. According to the file, the unknown teen caught on camera was just the delivery boy. Those were two very different roles, and the amount of scrutiny Neal's life would be under depended upon which one he found himself. Peter guessed Neal's quest for information was to see if that role had already been cast or was still yet to be determined.

"Agent Burke?"

Peter knew immediately that Neal's new ankle accessory had arrived. Not only did the man who'd approached him l _ook_ like a Federal Agent, clean shaven and wearing a nice suit, he was also carrying the familiar black cloth bag the devices came in.

"Yes," Peter replied. "I'm Agent Burke."

"Agent Kincaid, Marshal Service," the man introduced, removing a slip of paper from the bag before handing it over. "Agent Donaldson said you were expecting this."

"Yes, I was." Peter took the black bag from the man's hand. "Thanks for getting it here so fast."

"Not a problem," Agent Kincaid replied with gravity. "Can't have a felon off his leash, can we?" He held out the receipt. "Can you sign, please?"

"Sure," Peter said, trying not to let the remark irritate him. As an agent, he understood the sentiment but still rankled at the man's choice of words. "Have a pen?"

Agent Kincaid gave him one and Peter stepped across the hallway to an alcove and signed for the equipment. He handed both the slip and the pen back to the Agent. "Key?"

"It's in the bag," the agent informed him. "Good luck, Agent Burke." With a curt nod to Elizabeth, Agent Kincaid turned and departed the way he had come.

" _Leash_?" Elizabeth spat, her eyes drilling angrily into the man's retreating form. She too had been annoyed.

"He didn't mean anything by it, El," Peter remarked. "He's just doing his job."

"It was still a rude thing to say." Elizabeth's gaze left the agent and settled on the item in Peter's hand. "Neal isn't an animal that needs a leash; he's a _person_."

"I know," Peter agreed, "But he is, in fact, a felon and wearing a GPS tracker is part of his release agreement. Plus," he added. "Neal knew a replacement was on its way; he's okay with it."

 _Okay with it_ might be a stretch but he knew it was preferable to being cuffed to the bed and having a guard at his door. Or worse yet, being shipped to a prison hospital ward.

Any retort was cut short when the door to Neal's room opened, and the empty bed was pushed through. The two who had brought Neal, tasks accomplished, now exited, pushing the bed up the hallway. Anticipating entry, Peter unplugged his phone and picked up the folder he'd brought with him from the ICU. Hands full, he followed Elizabeth into the room.

"Almost finished," the nurse said as they entered, fingers flying over the keyboard as she keyed in the necessary information. "Everything looks good," she said, eyes on the screen in front of her. "We redressed the incisions, removed the cath and started the Cipro." Task at the computer now complete; her eyes found Peter's. "He has two more hours of the morphine, but after that," she looked at Neal, her tone chiding, " _if he eats,_ we can start him on an oral pain regiment."

"I'll eat _Jello_ ," Neal's tone suggested they'd discussed his menu options and jello had been the only one he found acceptable. Sitting almost upright, he looked much better than he had only moments before. He was not only alert but apparently _settling in_ also included hygiene measures. His bruised chin had been shaven, and his hair neatly combed.

He probably could have requested a razor, Peter thought, just as he had the toothbrush if he'd thought about it. But it didn't matter now; his eyes fell on the pair of duffle bags sitting near the wall. One was his; the other Neal's.

"I'll send some in for you then, Mr. Caffrey," she replied, moving the cart towards the door. "If you need anything," her eyes met Peter's including him in her directive, "Just press the call button."

Peter thanked her as she left and Elizabeth rushed to Neal's side. Peter crossed the room and locating an outlet, replugged the charger. He placed his phone, and the folder from Chicago, on the bedside table but kept the black bag in his hand. He dreaded putting the tracker on Neal's ankle, especially in front of Elizabeth, but it had to be done.

"We were all so _worried_ about you," Elizabeth was telling Neal, her voice unsteady. Even though he looked better than he had, Neal's face was still covered in hues of black, blue, and yellow. Elizabeth's touched his cheek gently. "Your poor _face._ " Peter was afraid waterworks were imminent, but instead of tears, her eyes flashed with anger. "That _man-_ "

"I'm _fine,_ Elizabeth," Neal interjected quickly, his hand grasping hers gently and pulling it from his face. "It looks worse than it is."

That, of course, wasn't true and Elizabeth didn't buy it for a minute.

"Are you really going to tell me your _fine_?" She searched his face in puzzlement. "After everything you've _been_ _through_?"

Neal was better than he had been but was still emotionally shaky; he'd been battling tears on and off all morning, and Peter could tell he again was struggling.

"The doctor says I'm doing fine," Neal's countered quietly, looking to Peter for help. " _Tell_ her, Peter."

The blue eyes were entreating; Neal didn't want a repeat of his earlier breakdowns. Peter didn't want one, either; not only for Neal's sake but Elizabeth's as well.

"He's right," Peter stated, stepping up both literally and figuratively. "The doctor said he might get to go home tomorrow; it's a good thing you brought him clothes or he'd be leaving in surgical scrubs."

Peter saw Neal's frame relax, relieved by the change of topic. "You brought me clothes?" He asked, pleased to further steer the conversation into a safe location. "Did you go by the apartment?"

Keenly aware that the conversation had been redirected, Elizabeth met Peter's eyes in understanding before responding.

"Yes, I did," she replied, her tone now more upbeat. "June let me in," she explained, stepping across to pick up one of the duffles. "She stayed with me while I gathered up a few things for you."

"A few things includes clean _underwear,_ " Peter told him with mock disapproval. "I'm not sure how I feel about my wife digging through your drawers."

The look of mortification on Neal's face brought a smile to Peter's. He enjoyed seeing Neal's composure shaken but only when it was in _fun;_ the past days hadn't fit into that category by a long shot. This felt more like their usual banter.

"Peter," Elizabeth scolded, coming to Neal's rescue. "Don't _tease_ him; you're making him blush."

Of course, her mention of it only intensified the color on Neal's face, adding a bright red to his already motley complexion.

" _Thank_ you, Elizabeth," Neal said, acknowledging her gestures of kindness and shooting a look of disapproval at Peter. "That was very _thoughtful_ of you." His eyes caught sight of the black bag in Peter's hand; his brow furrowed. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Ah, yes," Peter replied with a hesitant glance at Elizabeth. He'd told her Neal was okay with it, but his tone wasn't much of a testament. Still, it was better than the alternative. "It just arrived."

Peter pulled the device from the bag as Neal regarded it with ambivalence. Peter understood; to Neal, the device represented both freedom and captivity.

It was always awkward, after an operation required its removal, to strap the anklet back onto Neal's leg. No matter how well the two of them had worked together, how successful the operation had been, it's replacing always stifled the conversation and dampened the mood. Peter had learned to approach the task in a perfunctory manner. That seemed to lessen both his and Neal's discomfort. With that in mind, he moved around to the other side of the bed, anklet in hand. "Shall I do the honors?"

There was only the slightest of hesitation before Neal pulled at the blanket, exposing his foot. "By all means," he said, mustering a half-hearted grin directing it at Elizabeth. "That way you can get off guard duty and go home with your wife."

"Like that's going to happen," Elizabeth scoffed, doing her part to lighten the mood. "If he goes anywhere, it will be back to the office."

Neal's eyes fell back to his foot. "You know," he said quietly as Peter clicked the device into place. "When I woke up, tied to that chair, I was relieved it was still on my leg." He looked up at Peter. "Until I realized it wasn't _working_."

"You know what they say," Peter said, meeting Neal's eyes with a half-hearted grin of his own. "Be careful what you wish for."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Two cups of orange jello arrived about the same time Peter's phone powered on, and the buzzing began. Ten-forty-three and he had four missed calls; one from Elizabeth, one from Jones and two from Section Chief Hughes. There were two voice messages from Agent Hughes and a text message from Agent Littleton reading _When can I come talk to Caffrey?_

The young lady deposited the jello, along with a plastic spoon and a mammoth lidded plastic cup with the hospital logo, on the table within Neal's reach. She then handed him a small paper cup.

"This will help with nausea, Mr. Caffrey," she informed him. "And jello is easy on the stomach," she added sympathetically. "Just take is slow."

Neal thanked her, turned up the cup in a quick motion, then followed with a drink from the cup. Peter hadn't known Neal was experiencing that particular unpleasantness; he'd said nothing about it earlier, either to the nurse or the doctor. Peter wondered if it had developed after Neal had learned about the unpleasantness that lay ahead.

Speaking of unpleasantness; Peter needed to listen to the messages from Hughes.

As expected, his presence was requested at White Collar as soon as possible. Hughes wanted a preparatory meeting in advance of ORP; that meeting was scheduled for nine am the following morning. Basically Hughes wanted to make sure they were all on the same page, and Peter had his story straight. He imagined that it was to that end that Jones had called him as well. He hated that Jones had been caught in this quagmire, but he had been. After a call to Hughes, Jones deserved one as well.

The CNA had left, and Elizabeth now opened a cup of jello. "You heard her," she said with authority, handing it to Neal. " _Slow_."

Peter needed to return Agent Hughes' call, but his phone was still precariously low on battery power. Elizabeth mothering was taking both her and Neal's attention, so Peter elected to place the call from the room. The phone remained connected to the charger.

"Where the hell have you been?" The voice thundered across the miles. There hadn't been as much as a hello. "And why aren't you answering your _phone_?" The concept of never turning off one's phone didn't just apply to CIs; it applied to agents as well.

"I'm sorry, sir," Peter tried to keep his voice low, eyes going to the room's other occupants, afraid Agent Hughes' bellowing had permeated the space. "My phone was dead; I left the office rather fast yesterday and didn't have a charger. What's up?"

"Possibly your _employment_ with the Bureau," the man barked. "You still with _Caffrey?_ "

"Yes I am," Peter defended. "The Marshal Service just now delivered a replacement anklet; I couldn't exactly leave him here without one, now could I?"

His question brought a response from both Elizabeth and Neal; their eyes immediately flying to his face. He'd given Agent Hughes an acceptable reason for his absence at the office and one the Section Chief would accept, but in reality, the lack of an anklet had had nothing to do with his decision to stay with Neal. Peter knew Elizabeth was aware of his true motivation, but the fleeting look that crossed Neal's face before he looked away told Peter that, in spite of his earlier comment about Peter being on guard duty, the words had stung him. It was a mix of hurt and disappointment and Peter felt instant regret.

Elizabeth, having been warned off when her kind words made Neal uncomfortable, now glared at Peter for the ill-considered ones he'd just uttered. But he was on shaky ground; it was important not to give the impression, to Agent Hughes or anyone else, that his personal feelings were interfering with his ability to do his job. Hoping Elizabeth would understand, he denied his own words by shaking his head furiously and silently mouthed _It's Agent Hughes._

Immediately understanding his dilemma and why he'd said what he had, Elizabeth's expression softened. With a quick nod of understanding, she accepted the role of emissary, and placing a gentle hand on Neal's arm, began speaking to him. Unfortunately, Hughes' voice in his ear kept Peter from hearing what she was saying in defense of his statement.

"Of course not," the older man conceded, "but now that Caffrey's back on the anklet, I need you back here; there is a pile of paperwork, and on top of that, we need to discuss this meeting with ORP. Did you get my message?" he didn't wait for Peter's reply. "They'll be here at nine tomorrow."

"I understand, sir," Peter assured him as Elizabeth continued to speak earnestly to Neal. "But if possible, I'd like to be here when Agent Littleton takes Neal's statement. I'll drive in immediately afterward."

"What time is that scheduled?"

"I have to call him," Peter explained. "We didn't set a time; We were waiting until Neal was released from the ICU and that's just happened."

"Okay," Agent Hughes replied. "Stay for the statement. Just let me know the timeframe."

"I will, sir, and thank you." Peter was glad to see Neal had resumed his jello eating. He took that as a good sign.

"I'm glad Caffrey's going to be okay," Hughes tone had softened. "Agent Jones told me about the shape he was in when you found him."

"Yeah," Peter said. "We got lucky; just a few more minutes in that trunk and Eden would be facing murder charges."

There was a pause as the Section Chief thought that over. "Then we have a lot to be thankful for."

"Yes, we do, sir."


	43. Chapter 43

_Happy New Year Everyone. Thanks to all who are still reading this story. I hate to be a slow updater, but I did warn everyone. Still striving for an update a week, but can't guarantee it; January is a crazy month! Thanks to all who post reviews as well. They are so appreciated. They keep discouragement at bay and provide motivation to keep moving forward._

 **Chapter Forty-Three**

Peter's comment about his reason for being there caught Neal off guard but shouldn't have. It was valid; he was a flight risk, and a well-documented one and Peter never let him out of his sight without some GPS tracker on his person. Yet it still hurt to hear him say it. Maybe it was the drugs in his system and his emotional state, but since he'd awakened to find Peter Burke by his side, the agent had felt more like a friend than a handler.

But now Neal felt foolish; he'd acted like a child instead of a grown man. He had wept multiple times, been shaken by nightmares, and Peter had witnessed it all. He'd humiliated himself in front of the one person who's opinion of him mattered. He was the agent's responsibility; Peter had stayed with him because it was his job. His kindness had more likely been motivated by pity than friendship. He felt his face burn. He'd been an emotional mess; how could Peter ever respect him now? Neal felt the familiar lump rise in his throat; his eyes stung. He quickly dropped his eyes to his jello.

The doctor had said he'd feel more in control of himself as the day went on, but he needed control _now_. The orange cup swam before his eyes. He blinked.

 _He would not cry._

"Neal," He felt a gentle touch on his arm. "Peter stayed because he cares about you." Elizabeth leaned down, forcing him to meet her eyes. " _Trust_ me."

There was pity in her eyes, and Neal didn't want that from her any more than he wanted it from Peter. His pride stung, and his tears retreated. He was not a child.

"I _appreciate_ that," He responded, keeping his tone light. "Anyone else would have just cuffed me to the bed." His words distressed her; he rushed on. "Of course," he managed as much of a grin as his split lip would allow, "Knowing how useless cuffs are on me, I can see why he elected to stay until the anklet arrived."

He hoped his levity would convince Elizabeth that he didn't need coddling nor consoling, but instead of returning his smile, she met him with a frown.

"No," she gave a quick shake of her head. "You don't _understand_. " She nodded toward Peter. "He was so _scared_ for you. He's not slept. He's hardly eaten." Her dark eyes were intense. "The only thing on his mind has been getting you back _safely._ Don't you see?" she searched his eyes _. "_ He stayed with you because you're his friend and he was _worried_ about you. He just couldn't say that to Agent Hughes _given the_ _circumstances_."

She sounded so sincere; her words held such conviction that Neal found himself almost believing her... _wanting_ to believe her. He wanted to believe he was more to Peter than just a responsibility, a criminal on work release.

" _What_ circumstances?"

Peter had eluded to some trouble for not following protocol, but he had downplayed the seriousness of it. Elizabeth, on the other hand, did not.

She explained that, with both the NYPD and the Marshal Service lodging complaints against him for not following procedure, Peter had initially been removed from the case. That was, Neal now realized, the reason the message he'd sent hadn't been received as quickly had he had hoped; Peter hadn't had access to the security video. And that wasn't all. After being told he was off the case, Peter had continued to work it, further antagonizing the Detective handling the investigation. At that point, Agent Hughes, furious at Peter for disregarding his orders and allowing his friendship with Neal to impair his judgment, had taken his badge and sent him home.

Neal was stunned; Peter had been suspended. But Elizabeth assured him that although Peter was still facing possible disciplinary actions, he had since been reinstated by Agent Hughes. Neal felt responsible for the predicament Peter was in, but when he began to apologize, Elizabeth cut him off quickly. He wasn't to blame; the one to blame, she stated with anger, was Terrence Eden.

She knew his captor's name, and by the way she spat it, Neal guessed she knew more than that. She no doubt had picked up some information while Peter, unwilling to sit on the sidelines even after his suspension, had continued to work the case from home. Mozzie had been there, Elizabeth informed him, as had Agent Jones. Clinton and Peter had worked throughout the night and well into the morning, gathered around the Burke dining table, sorting through information and trying to determine how to locate him and bring him home.

Although the scene her words produced in his mind stirred his emotions, something else was stirred as well. He was going to be asked about his past relationship with Eden; to know how to handle that he needed to know how much the Feds had already uncovered. Peter wasn't willing to share information about the case, but Elizabeth might be; especially if she didn't realize she wasn't supposed to. He felt a twinge of guilt but dismissed it; he wasn't conning her, he was just listening. He kept his focus on his jello, moving spoon after spoon from the small plastic cup to his mouth as Elizabeth continued to talk about the events of the past two days.

He listened, but Elizabeth spoke only generally, concentrating primarily on the emotional drama. She revealed little specific information about the case itself. She did tell him that it had been Mozzie who had come up with the name of his captor, and Agent Jones who had discovered the Cybercrimes case in Chicago. Once Peter had the chance to view the video from the Danford Building, everything had come together. The message Neal had managed to send not only validated Peter's claim that Neal had been forced to commit the crime, it confirmed the name of his captor as well. At that point, Peter had been reinstated with the Bureau and assigned to work with Agent Littleton.

If Elizabeth knew anything about his past in Chicago or Terrence Eden's role in his early years, she didn't bring it up. Neal knew there was no paper trail connecting Neal Caffrey to Chicago but the photo Peter had shown him was problematic; what else did the file contain? Was there any evidence actually tying him to Eden? Or was he simply the boy who had dropped a letter? What did they actually _know?_

He needed to see that file. It currently rested on a table only two feet away from him. The presence of a goal, an objective to achieve, did wonders to settle his volatile emotions. He even felt his mind begin to clear; to sharpen in spite of the morphine that still flooded his veins.

Elizabeth had been considerate enough to bring him a change of clothes, but she'd also brought one to Peter. Neal was sure the agent couldn't wait to shed his current attire and get into something more suitable. His absence from the room might give Neal a window of opportunity to look through the file but only if Elizabeth had already departed. If she were still there, he'd need to find a way to encourage them both to step out of the room. Maybe he could tell them he wanted to change as well, in preparation for his meeting with Agent Littleton? Perhaps they could grab some lunch?

Once he saw what information the file contained, he'd better know how to proceed. He planned to cooperate fully with Agent Littleton on the current case, but he wanted no part of the previous one. He'd put that part of his life behind him and had no intentions of revisiting it. The charges in the current case would be enough to send Eden to prison for the rest of his life.

"I'm very well aware of that, sir," Peter was wrapping up his conversation with Agent Hughes. "I'll be back at the office no later than three; we can talk about it then."

"Problems?" Neal asked as Peter replaced the phone on the bedside table. He'd sounded tense as he ended the call. Neal had some unpleasant meetings ahead, but he now knew that Peter did as well.

"Just the usual," Peter replied. "Reports, paperwork." He shrugged, "You know how it goes."

Peter didn't intend to tell him the seriousness of the situation he was facing. As one who constantly lectured on the importance of following the rules, Neal could understand his reluctance. He also guessed Peter didn't want him to know the _reason_ he hadn't followed procedure, but Elizabeth had told him that as well. If Neal ran and Peter found him before anyone was the wiser, it wouldn't automatically have resulted in a return to prison. But a call to the Marshal Service _would_ have. Peter had been trying to protect him, to keep a stupid, foolhardy stunt from jeopardizing his future. He had acted like a friend, not a handler, and now would have to answer for it.

"He knows about the inquiry you're facing, Peter," Elizabeth said impatiently. "I told him; Is it _today_?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "Agent Hughes just wants to go over what I'm going to say. I meet with OPR in the morning."

Their experience with OPR had been less than ideal; there was no love lost on either side.

"How bad do you think it will be?" Neal could hear the concern in Elizabeth's voice. Peter's job was who he was; Peter without his badge was, well, _not_ Peter. But he was an accomplished agent; surely this infraction wasn't serious enough to terminate a _job_ over.

But it could terminate a _program_. Neal felt sudden concern. He and Peter's arrangement was unorthodox and had come under harsh scrutiny twice already. What if this was the third strike, the final straw? What if that was why Peter hadn't wanted to tell him about the inquiry? What if it was to determine not Peter's fate as an agent, but Neal's fate as his CI?

"It's nothing I can't handle, El." Peter sounded convincing, but Neal had his doubts. "Speaking of meetings," he met Neal's eyes. "Agent Littleton wants to know when he can take your statement."

"Tell him I'm ready when he is," Neal replied. "I'd just as soon get it over with."

"He's a good agent, Neal," Peter told him, picking up his phone and sending a quick text, "and a good _guy_ ; I think you'll like him. Just tell him what happened, answers his questions, and everything will be fine."

"Are you going to be here," Neal asked hesitantly, "when I give my statement?"

"If Agent Littleton doesn't mind," Peter answered, "and if he gets here before I have to leave. But only as an observer," he added. "He will be running the show."

"Well, I'd like to change into some pajama's before the show _starts_ ," Neal ventured. He'd also like a look at that file. "I'd rather not be on stage in a gown that opens in the back."

"Understandable," Peter chuckled, walking around the bed to the wardrobe. "I'm looking forward to an upgrade myself. _"_ Opening the door, he removed his standard, dark blue suit before nodding at the duffles on the floor. "Which one of these is mine, El?"

"The one on the left," she supplied.

"Thanks for bringing this," Peter said gratefully, picking up the bag. "You don't know-" His phone buzzed. "Can you check that, El?" Peter asked nodding towards his phone. It was still tethered to the wall by its charger. "It's probably Agent Littleton texting back his ETA."

Elizabeth picked up the phone. "Traffic bad," she read. "See you twelve-thirty _ish_." She looked up. "What me to reply?"

"Yeah," Peter answered. "tell him Neal's in room 236." He looked at Neal. "Mind if I use your bathroom?"

"Of course not," Neal replied.

"After I change," Peter announced, stepping through the wide door and hanging his suit out of Neal's line of sight, "Elizabeth and I will grab an early lunch. You can call one of those pretty CNA's in here to help you change. Sound like a plan?"

"Sounds like a good one," Neal answered. "And don't rush back; enjoy your lunch with Elizabeth," He stifled a yawn. "I might even catch a nap before Agent Littleton arrives."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Agent Littleton made it through the doors of Good Samaritan Medical Center fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Once he'd gotten out of the city, traffic had lightened up, and he'd made the rest of the trip in a timely manner. He was looking forward to meeting Neal Caffrey, officially, and deciding for himself what he made of him.

The man was smart; that was evident, and apparently an exceptional CI. He might push limits and test boundaries, but according to water cooler chatter he always delivered. This was proven out by data; he'd learned from Agent Jones that since Caffrey joined White Collar, their closure rates had dramatically risen. No one he talked to disputed the fact that Neal Caffrey was a valuable asset to the Bureau. What they did question was whether or not he'd been reformed; _could_ be reformed. It was the subject of much debate and the opinions varied widely. Some thought he had been, had redeemed himself and deserved a second chance at a good life. Others saw a felon who'd skirted on his sentence; someone to use while they could because the first time an opportunity presented itself he'd break the law and be back in prison. Agent Jones, whom he'd worked closely with all morning, seemed to embody elements of both camps. He seemed to personally like Caffrey, to value his contributions to the team, but there was an underlying sense of disapproval. Agent Littleton guessed that he, like many in the law enforcement community, disagreed with the practice of allowing criminals to work off their sentences instead of serving them. Agent Burke struck him as that type as well. However, he had been the one who'd lobbied for the work-release arrangement with Caffrey. He'd chased the con man for three years before finally arresting him; they had been adversaries, but now they worked on the same side. And they did it well. They were referred to among the other agents as the Dynamic Duo.

He hadn't purposefully been gathering intel but Caffrey's weekend misadventures, as well as the hot water his handler was in, had been the topic of morning chatter at the Federal Building. He'd been at the office early, working between Cyber Crimes and White Collar, getting his ducks in a row. Terrence Eden had gone before the judge at nine am and had been remanded to custody at Rikers. So far, he had refused to answer any question. He'd left Agent Abernathy and Agent Jones to take the Carver Statements and he'd driven up to get Caffrey's.

He made his way through the lobby and to the elevator, then arrived on the second floor. As he was moving down the hall, he saw Agent Burke emerge from one of the rooms. He was accompanied by an attractive brunette. She didn't appear to be hospital staff; their body language told him that they were involved.

There was a kiss, then a hug. She was obviously someone very important to the agent. When Burke saw his approach, his relaxed posture immediately changed. He hastily disengaged himself from the woman's embrace.

"Agent Littleton," Burke said, glancing at his watch. "You made good time."

Had he been on time, he would have missed the farewell which, he knew, Agent Burke would have preferred.

"Yes, I did," he agreed; his eyes went to the lady at Burke's side, awaiting the introduction.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the older agent found his manners. "This is my wife, Elizabeth; Elizabeth, Agent Littleton."

"It's good to meet you, Mrs. Burke." He said politely.

He felt himself being sized up. "Likewise, Agent Littleton."

He got the impression she didn't like him. He didn't know why; he thought he and Agent Burke had worked well together. But it was possible the agent resented having to follow his lead and had said as much to his wife. He turned his attention to the task at hand.

"Is Caffrey ready for me?" He asked.

"His name is _Neal,_ " Burke's wife corrected him sharply. "I know you have a job to do, but remember," Her eyes were dark. "He's been through a lot. He is the _victim_ here."

Her tone was surprisingly protective, and he realized it wasn't his role with her husband that had prompted her disdain. It was his impending meeting with Caffrey. Or _Neal._ As his handler, Agent Burke had to have a relationship with his CI, but it was unusual for an agent to allow that relationship to extend into his personal life. It was even more unusual to let it impact his family. But then again, he'd learned the Burke-Caffrey dynamic was anything but usual.

"I understand that," he assured her. "I just need to get his statement so we can make sure the people responsible are punished."

"Good," she stated firmly. "They _need_ to be." She placed a hand on her husband's arm. "See you tonight?"

"Absolutely," Burke affirmed. "And thanks again for driving up. And bringing _clothes_."

She reached up and stroked his face. "And a _razor._ "

The agent smiled. "That too. Drive safely. El."

"I will." With a parting nod, Mrs. Burke left them.

As she retreated down the hall, Agent Littleton gestured toward the open door. "He ready for me?"

"He says he is," the agent answered. "He's weak, though, and still on morphine, so the quicker you get through this, the better."

He got the feeling that Mrs. Burke wasn't the only one feeling protective. "I'll make it as quick and painless as possible." He frowned. "Have you spoken to him about the case?"

Peter shook his head. "I've not shared any specifics," he said. "I did tell him Eden was in custody and that Andrew Carver was fine. He was anxious when he regained consciousness," he explained. "I had to assure him that everything was okay; that he was _safe_."

Recalling the condition Caffrey had been in when Burke and Jones had pulled him from the trunk, he could understand Caffrey's need for reassurance.

"I understand," he replied. He nodded toward the doorway. "Shall we?"

"Do you mind if I sit in for the interview?" Burke asked, his voice low. "I won't interfere; I just want to hear what he has to say."

"Of course not," he replied. He'd planned to ask the agent to stay. "In fact, I'd appreciate your help."

"My help?" Agent Burke seemed skeptical.

"You know Caffrey," he said simply, "I do not. I need you in there to make sure I ask the right questions."

"I don't know if anyone _knows_ him," the agent replied, "but I guess I know him as well as anyone can."

"That's what I was told," Agent Littleton stated. "You know what Agent Jones calls you, don't you?"

"Other than _boss_?"

Agent Littleton grinned. "The resident expert on Neal Caffrey."


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty-Four**

The first thing Agent Littleton noticed about Neal Caffrey was his eyes. He immediately recalled the witness at the Danford Building commenting that Caffrey had the _prettiest eyes she'd ever seen._ He wouldn't go that far, but they were definitely the _bluest; t_ he color intensified by the non-hospital issue royal blue pajama's he wore. Apparently, Mrs. Burke hadn't only brought her husband a change of clothes; she'd brought his CI one as well. The second thing he noticed was how much the bruised face reminded him of the photo he'd found in the Chicago PD file. Agent Burke had expressed his suspicion that Caffrey was younger than he claimed to be, and seeing him now, Agent Littleton was inclined to agree.

"Neal," Agent Burke said as they entered. "This is Agent Littleton from the Cyber Crimes Division, the one I told you about. He's here to take your statement."

"Agent Littleton," Caffrey greeted him with an easy smile. "I'm Neal Caffrey, the one he's told _you_ about, and I'm ready to give it."

Caffrey, deep bruising still visible on his face, was sitting upright in the hospital bed. There was a pallor to his skin, and his eyes were weak, but he looked much better than he had the first time he'd seen him. There were IV bags hanging on the pole beside him, the line running to his right arm. Agent Littleton knew one was pain medication and wondered if morphine was the reason the smile had come so easily to his lips.

Moving over to Caffrey's bedside, he noticed a dinner plate on the table. Other than a few bites that may have been missing from the pile of whipped potatoes and an empty plastic pull-top cup, the food was virtually untouched. There was a medley of stewed vegetables and meat he couldn't readily identify; he understood Caffrey's lack of interest.

"I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for both the food and his timing. "I should have paid attention to the time; I've interrupted your lunch."

"Trust me, you didn't interrupt," Caffrey replied with a look of disdain. "I've had all I can stand of it."

"I can sympathize," Agent Littleton chuckled, nodding at the less than appetizing meal. "But if you want to finish I can come back," he offered. "Say in a half hour or so?"

"That's not necessary, Agent Littleton," Caffrey replied, placing the brown, hard plastic cover over the plate with certainty. "You're here for a statement so let's do it."

Every victim he'd interviewed had some level of anxiety, and they had only suffered financial injury; never the physical kind Caffrey had been subjected to. The criminals he usually dealt with were the Evan McAllisters of the world. They attacked with virus and malware and not their fists; they inflicted damage to bank accounts and not to _bodies._ They didn't want contact with their victims, in fact, they counted it a success when their marks had no idea who they even were.

But he had known from the beginning that Terrence Eden was a different kind of criminal. He didn't seek anonymity; he wanted his victims to know him. He enjoyed engaging in violence and relished the power that fear gave him over others. He'd run his organization that way for years. He was a cold-hearted, cruel man; it was apparent from his history. And there were reasons to believe Caffrey knew that history all too well, reasons to believe that a relationship existed between them that dated back to his youth. Caffrey had most likely fled Chicago to escape Terrence Eden but the damage, both physical and mental, the man had inflicted on him before that time was unknowable. Eden's sudden appearance in his life had to have shaken Caffrey; had to have packed an emotional punch. He'd been kidnapped, drugged, and nearly beaten to death by a monster from his past. And now, less than twenty-four hours after being pulled bloody and barely breathing from a trunk of a car, he would have to recount every detail of the experience. He had every right to be anxious and uptight, but he appeared remarkably at ease.

Yet Agent Littleton viewed Caffrey's demeanor with some skepticism. The man was skilled at deception; that's what made him a valuable CI. Agent Jones had said the more stressful the situation Caffrey found himself in, the more unaffected he appeared to be. So Littleton had to wonder if that was what he was seeing now; a stressed Neal Caffrey.

It took mental energy to maintain a false facade, and given what Caffrey had been through, Agent Littleton doubted he had a lot of it to spare. If that were indeed what Caffrey was doing, he'd be hard-pressed to keep it up once his statement got underway. Recalling events in detail, especially when those details were unpleasant, took a lot of mental fortitude as well.

Whether Caffrey's calmness was genuine or not, the first step in the interview process was to establish a relationship with the witness; to build a level of trust. Andrew Carver, having been locked in a storage room most of the time, could provide limited information about the crime. Caffrey, on the other hand, had interacted with Eden and been privy to his plans. He could provide a more completed picture but there was a lot of ground to cover, and some of it would be unpleasant. Agent Littleton needed to establish rapport with Caffrey, to connect with him on a personal level. Keeping the witness comfortable, especially in cases when the subject matter to be discussed was sensitive in nature, not only made the process less difficult to get through but also increased the quality and quantity of information gathered. There were several devices that, when employed, would draw Caffrey out and help accomplish that goal. He used his four most effective ones in his opening statement.

"I appreciate your willingness to help, Neal." _Use the first name to establish familiarity; Express appreciation_ _._ He dropped his backpack onto the chair. "I know you've had a tough weekend." _Understand and empathize._ "How are you feeling?" _An open-ended question to prompt a subjective response._

Steady blue eyes met his. "The doctor says I'm doing well." Caffrey's response was not a subjective one at all. "I should get to go home tomorrow."

"That's good to hear," Agent Littleton replied, watching the young man closely. Truly at ease people didn't avoid answering simple questions. "But how are you _feeling?"_ He asked again.

Caffrey's brow furrowed slightly at his insistence. "Sore, tired, and like I might vomit at any moment. Other than that," he managed a half smile. "I feel fine."

He'd downplayed it with humor, but Caffrey had given him what sounded like an honest answer. Agent Littleton took that as a good sign and pressed onward.

"You've been through a lot the past few days," Agent Littleton ventured, "and I realize having to go back over it all might be difficult for you."

"It will be less difficult if we just get on with it." A faint smile still clung to his lips, but Agent Littleton heard a slight strain in Caffrey's voice.

"We will," Agent Littleton assured him, "but I've found things go better if I take a few minutes to talk first, you know, get acquainted a bit before we begin."

"Agent Burke told me who you are and I'm sure you've read my file," Caffrey replied, "so let's consider ourselves acquainted and move on."

"I haven't read your file, " He'd learned a lot about Caffrey but not from his file, "but I've worked closely with your team the past couple of days, so I've picked up a few things."

"I'm sure you have," Caffrey's tone was dry, his eyes traveling across the room to his FBI handler. Agent Burke had remained silent since his initial introduction, honoring his promise to leave the interview to the Agent in Charge.

"This agreement you have with the Bureau," Agent Littleton continued, "serving your sentence as a consultant; that's an unusual arrangement."

"Both sides benefit from it," Caffrey replied. "They get my expertise, and I get to stay out of prison," he shrugged. "It's a win-win."

"So I've been told," Agent Littleton admitted. He'd heard the numbers. "You've been Agent Burke's CI for what, a little over a year now?"

Caffrey nodded. "Fourteen months."

"So how much longer...?" He let his question trail off.

"There's just under three years left on my sentence." The strain was again evident in Caffrey's voice.

"I hit my third year at Cyber Crimes in Chicago last month," Agent Littleton volunteered. "When you like what you do and the people you work with, time goes by pretty fast. How about you?" he asked. "Do you like working at White Collar?"

"It's certainly better than the prison laundry. Look, Agent Littleton," Caffrey had reached the limit of his patience. "Can we cut the small talk just get to the statement please?"

"Okay, Neal," Agent Littleton obliged. He wanted to reduce Caffrey's stress, not increase it. "We'll go ahead and get started."

He unzipped the bag and removed a couple of notepads as well as his small video recorder. "Do you mind if I record our meeting?"

Agent Littleton saw a flicker of something, perhaps unease, in Caffrey's eyes but it was quickly gone. "Of course not."

Agent Burke stepped near, speaking for the first time in several minutes. "If you're done," he addressed Caffrey. "I'll take your plate on out to the cart." At Caffrey's look of assent, Agent Burke picked it up. "Might cut down on some of the interruptions," he added to Agent Littleton.

It was a hospital, so interruptions were bound to occur, and although it was not the ideal setting to take a witness statement, it would have to do. Agent Littleton always recorded his witness statements. It ensured he didn't miss anything and also allowed the witness to describe the events without having to wait for him to take notes. It also provided a record of what transpired during the interview and statement process.

In addition to those reasons for the recording, in this case, there was another one. Caffrey's face was a statement of its own, but by the time the case made it to trial, his bruises would be healed. This way, parts of his statement could be played in court enabling the jury to see the result of Eden's brutality.

He rolled the table several feet away from the bed into a suitable position for camera set up. He placed his camera on the table and turned it on. He checked the camera's view screen, making sure it captured not only Caffrey battered face but enough of his surroundings to make it clear he was in a hospital bed. One should never underestimate the power of visual aids to elicit jury sympathy. Agent Burke returned and, pulling one of the chairs out of the camera's view, sat down without a word. Agent Littleton, satisfied with the camera's positioning, stepped over to the chair and retrieved the notepads. After quickly jotting down information at the top of each, he handed one, along with a pen, to Agent Burke.

Just from their brief exchange, he expected Caffrey's narrative to be an objective one. Although he didn't think Caffrey had any reason to lie, it had been established that he was not beyond withholding information. After all, he'd never said a word about his history with Terrence Eden even when doing so might have served him well. He needed to know Caffrey's recounting was complete and that he wasn't holding back or excluding anything. But he didn't know Caffrey, and from what Agent Jones had said, he was hard to read even when you did. That was why he was glad to have the resident expert on Neal Caffrey present during the interview.

"We will be recording," Agent Littleton said, returning to the camera, "But Agent Burke and I will also be jotting down key pieces of information as we go along." Explaining each action, and the reason for it, was standard practice. Keeping the witness informed during the process helped keep their anxiety level low. "You ready to get started?"

"I've been ready."

After switching on the camera, Agent Littleton returned to his place at the bedside. He didn't want to tower over Caffrey so he moved the bag from the chair and sat down. Even within the past several minutes, he'd seen Caffrey's facade begin to slip. He could now see a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Agent Littleton began the interview by stating, into the camera, his name and Bureau Division, the date, location and case ID number. He then asked Caffrey to state, for the record, his name, address, and current occupation.

"Neal Caffrey. 351 Riverside Drive, New York, New York," His eyes darted to Agent Burke and back before he finished. "CI for the White Collar Division of the FBI."

"Do you know why I am here?" He knew Caffrey knew the purpose of his visit, but it was standard to begin the witness interview with the question.

"To get my statement about what happened this weekend."

"That's right," he affirmed, "and again, I appreciate your willingness to meet with me given your condition.

At Caffrey's nod, he continued. "Let me outline the process for you," he began. "That way you know exactly what to expect. First, I will ask you to tell me everything that happened from the time you arrived at your apartment on Friday afternoon until you awakened here in the hospital. _Everything is important_ ," he insisted. "Everything you saw, heard or did. Everyone you encountered. I want you to take your time and include as much detail as possible. Even if you think something is unimportant don't edit it; report everything. Walk me through it step by step." Again, the blue eyes flickered. "I know it's a lot," he acknowledged, "so if at any time you need a break, just let me know, and I'll stop the camera. We can start again when you are ready, okay?"

"Okay."

"Once we've gotten through that," he continued. "There will be some follow-up questions. Agent Burke or I may need clarification on something you've said, or we might ask if you remember anything else about a certain point. The purpose of an interview is to help you remember as much as possible about what happened. Sometimes asking specific questions helps trigger additional memories so we may ask some of those as well. If we ask something and you don't know the answer, just say so."

The blue eyes held his steadily.

"After that," Agent Littleton finished. "I will put together a statement based on what you've said, print it out and let you read it. If it's correct, I will have you sign it. Do you understand the process?"

"I understand."

"Do you have any questions before we start?"

Caffrey shook his head.

"Okay, then," Agent Littleton said, leaning back in the chair, pen poised above the notepad in his hand, eyes fixed on Caffrey's face. "Start whenever you are ready."


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter Forty-five**

Peter knew what Agent Littleton was doing; he was trying to connect with Neal on a personal level. He inquired about his health, his job, and his personal life. He wanted Neal to feel valued as a person and not just as a source of information. It was an approach taught in Effective Interview and Interrogation Seminars; a technique used to establish a comfort level between the interviewer and interviewee making the process more productive. It worked very well in most cases, with most people, but of course, Neal Caffrey wasn't most people. As a master manipulator himself, Neal was never taken in by such tactics, but he usually played along, finding a way to turn them to his advantage. But he didn't do that today; today, Neal just wanted to get through the interview, give his statement, and be done with it.

Neal managed to project, for the most part, an appearance of calm as Agent Littleton talked with him but Peter knew underneath he was struggling. He managed a couple of weak smiles in the beginning but they never reached his eyes, and his hands remained pressed firmly against the blanket to hide their unsteadiness. Under normal circumstances, Neal would have seized upon Agent Littleton's attempt to draw him into a conversation. He would have taken it as an opportunity to size up the agent, put his own spin on things, and set the stage in a way that would most benefit him as the investigation moved forward. But these weren't normal times. Instead of engaging Agent Littleton in any meaningful way, Neal's responses were brief and limited. He was physically weak, emotionally vulnerable and didn't have the energy to charm the agent or manipulate the situation to his advantage. As much as Neal's stratagems irritated and frustrated him, it pained Peter to see him unable to deploy them; he seemed so defenseless. Peter reminded himself that Neal had no enemies here; nothing to fear. All he had to do was tell the truth; about what had happened this weekend and what had happened a decade ago. The truth, truly, would set him free. Unfortunately, he doubted Neal felt the same way.

Peter stood by silently, listening as Agent Littleton continued to try to engage Neal and watching Neal's stress level rise. Finally, unable to contain his impatience any longer, Neal practically pleaded with the agent to cut the small talk and get on with it. Realizing delaying was causing distress instead of alleviating it, Agent Littleton honored Neal's request. He pulled a small video camera from his bag; he wanted to capture the encounter digitally.

With the interview about to get underway, and knowing someone would be in any moment to get Neal's plate, Peter picked it up and took it out himself.

"You didn't have to do that, Agent Burke." The CNA who'd brought Neal's dinner appeared from the adjoining room. "I would have been in to get in."

"I know you would have," Peter replied. "But I wanted to have a word with you. An agent is here to take Mr. Caffrey's statement," he explained. "Is there any way we can limit interruptions for about an hour?"

He hoped it didn't go longer than that; he'd have to leave by then.

"Mr. Caffrey's morphine drip will finish in half an hour," she informed him, taking Neal's plate from his hand. "I'll have to come in then and disconnect it, but it won't take long. The Respiratory Therapist isn't scheduled until two thirty, so you should be able to have some privacy until then." She placed the plate on the cart and raised the lid. "He didn't eat much," she frowned. "Is he still experiencing nausea?"

"I think so, yes," he stated, recalling Neal's answer to Agent Littleton. "but he did eat the fruit cup," he added.

"Well, that's something," she said. "Hopefully, nausea will pass, but if he needs anything, just buzz me. Other than that, I'll leave you alone until one."

Peter thanked her and returned to the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Agent Littleton had the camera set up and ready to go. Peter pulled a chair over to the right wall and took a seat. A moment later, Agent Littleton stepped across the room, handing him a yellow notepad and a pen. Written across the top were the words:

 _Let me know if you think he's not being truthful or is holding anything back._

He met the agent's eyes. Agent Littleton knew Neal had kept secrets about Eden before and was smart enough to know he might do so again.

"We will be recording," Agent Littleton said as he returned to the hospital table that held the camera. "But Agent Burke and I will also be jotting down key pieces of information as we go along. You ready to get started?"

"I've been ready." Neal's tone was serious, not sarcastic.

Agent Littleton turned on the camera and returned to Neal's side. He removed the bag from his chair and sat down. Looking into the camera, he stated his name and Bureau Division, date, location and case ID number. Then he turned to Neal.

"Can you please state, for the record, your name, address, and current occupation?"

"Neal Caffrey. 351 Riverside Drive, New York, New York," Neal's eyes briefly met his before returning to the camera. "CI for the White Collar Division of the FBI."

"Do you know why I am here?" Agent Littleton asked.

"To get my statement about what happened this weekend." Neal's voice sounded strained.

"That's right, and again, I appreciate your willingness to meet with me given your condition."

Agent Littleton then explained to Neal what would be required of him. He was to report everything he could remember from the time he arrived home on Friday afternoon until he'd awakened in the hospital. He was to leave nothing out; Agent Littleton stressed that several times. After he'd finished, there would be a time for follow up questions. He may be asked for clarification, or for more information. Once that was complete, a statement would be prepared and printed out. Neal would be asked to read it and then sign his name documenting it as his official statement. Having explained the process, Agent Littleton asked if Neal had any questions. When he didn't, Agent Littleton told him he could begin whenever he was ready.

Neal's eyes found his again but this time they lingered; he was anxious and looking to him for encouragement. This was the _real_ reason Peter had wanted to be here; not to hear Neal's statement or make sure he was being truthful. He was here to support a friend. To that end, he gave Neal a reassuring nod.

Neal acknowledged it with a slight nod of his own, took a deep breath, and began.

Both Peter and Agent Littleton listened as Neal described what had transpired outside June's house on Riverside Drive. June had said the men who'd approached Neal looked like Federal Agents and that had been their intent; they had presented themselves to Neal as Federal Marshals. They knew his name, where he worked and said they were there to do a manual reset of the anklet. One of the men had knelt down in front of him, supposedly to reset the anklet, when Neal felt a jab in his shoulder. He'd then been shoved into the backseat of the SUV. The drug had acted quickly; he hadn't been able to speak or even move. The next thing he remembered was waking up, tied to a chair, in his underwear. His kidnappers had taken his clothes but had left the anklet. Peter found that curious; Neal must have too, at the time, but he didn't mention it in his narrative.

Once he'd began his discourse, Neal had settled down, the anxiety in his eyes evaporating. His expression had smoothed, the all too familiar curtain falling across his eyes. He'd distanced himself from the story he was telling. He reported the events as if he had been an observer, not a participant, and provided little personal elaboration. He had given excellent descriptions of his kidnappers, their names were Max and Ken, and told them what he knew about each of them. Max, as they already knew, was the inside man and head of security at the Danford Building. Neal knew nothing about Ken except his name. Neal's one personal observation about him was that, other than being a kidnapper; he'd seemed like a decent guy.

Neal continued his narrative, describing the room he'd awakened in; it was a storage room in a warehouse, but he didn't know its location. He'd been alone when he'd regained consciousness but hadn't remained that way long. His kidnappers had returned, Max had cut the tracking device with a pair of heavy shears, and Terrence Eden had entered the room.

Neal had kept an even pace and steady voice thus far but when he got to the part in his story where he'd come face to face with Eden, whom he neglected to describe but called by name, there was a subtle change. His tempo faltered, as did his eye contact with Agent Littleton. He hesitated briefly before recovering, resuming his previous gait and manner, describing the exchange that had taken place between his kidnapper Max and Terrence Eden. Eden, or Mr. Eden as Neal called him, was angry that the tracking device hadn't already been removed and disposed of. Max explained the reason for the delay. Neal learned then that someone had, by some means, been coerced into tampering with his tracking data. He found out the next morning, he added, what those means had been.

"Max showed me a video clip of Andrew," Neal recalled, "and Mr. Eden told me his mother was a programmer at SecureAlert, the company that leases tracking devices to the Marshal Service. He said she'd made it appear that I was still at my apartment," He looked at Peter, "and that no one knew I was missing."

"So what happened after Maxwell explained the delay to Mr. Eden?" Agent Littleton asked, prompting Neal to return to his story.

But Neal hesitated, a look of doubt crossing his face. After a moment of what appeared an inner debate, he spoke.

"I knew him," he stated, his voice low. "From years ago, before I came to New York. Before I was..." He stopped mid-sentence, eyes going quickly to Peter's face before returning to his interviewer. Peter wondered if he'd been going to say _before I was Neal Caffrey_ but had thought the better of it. "I worked for Mr. Eden in Chicago, and we didn't part company on good terms."

Peter was glad Neal had finally taken the plunge. His prior contact with Terrence Eden was known; not mentioning it would have made him appear untrustworthy.

"I see," Agent Littleton nodded, "This was a forced reunion." After acknowledging Neal's admission, Agent Littleton returned to the statement. "So what happened next, Neal?"

Again Neal hesitated, but only for a moment. "He said I owed him and he'd come to collect," he dropped his eyes to his hands which, still until now, plucked at his blanket. "He likes hurting people, so..." he gave a small shrug, leaving little doubt as to what had transpired. "I thought he was going beat me to death."

When he didn't continue, Agent Littleton prompted him gently. "I know it's difficult," he began sympathetically, "but please go on."

Neal didn't respond and his hands grasped the blanket tightly. He'd done well but now Peter could see his emotions were beginning to overwhelm him. He swallowed several times, his breathing irregular, as he tried to regain his slipping composure. It didn't take an expert on Neal Caffrey to see his distress; Agent Littleton saw it as well.

"You okay, Neal?" He glanced at Peter in concern. "Do we need to take a break?"

Neal shook his head but it took a moment for him to find his voice. "No," he said, eyes still downcast. "Let's go on."

"Okay," Agent Littleton replied. When Neal didn't resume his narration, the agent attempted to impel him with a question. "So you were physically assaulted by Mr. Eden at this point, is that correct?"

"Yes," Neal confirmed, his voice so low Peter could barely hear him.

"A little louder, Neal, please." Agent Littleton instructed gently.

"Yes," Neal raised his head, meeting Agent Littleton's eyes. "Mr. Eden physically assaulted me." His voice was unsteady but audible. "Then said he had a _job_ for me and-" his eyes flashed in anger, "I told him _I wouldn't do it._ "

Peter heard the defiance in Neal's voice and didn't have to imagine how Terrence Eden had responded; the video and witness statements from the Danford Building told him.

Agent Littleton asked the question anyway. "What happened then?"

"He didn't like my answer," Neal said simply. "I woke up later when he sent Max and Ken to make sure I was still alive."

In other words, he'd been beaten into unconsciousness. Peter again felt his anger boil at the thought of Neal, tied to a chair and defenseless, being beaten by Terrence Eden. But it was so unlike Neal, he thought, to have responded that way. Finding himself in such a vulnerable position, the Neal Caffrey he knew would play along. He'd turn on the charm and use his silver tongue to convince Eden he'd do whatever he wanted. His mind would be on self-preservation, biding his time until he could figure a way out of his predicament. That was what Neal Caffrey did; what he excelled at.

But this time, he hadn't. He'd responded irrationally, with no regard to the consequences of his actions. Neal knew Eden, was familiar with his disposition, and yet it had not deterred him from his reckless defiance. It reminded Peter of the time Neal had gone after Fowler. He'd been driven by grief, pain, and rage, and so desperate to strike back that he hadn't cared if it cost him his freedom or even his life.

It was those same desperate emotions, Peter imagined, that Neal had experienced when he'd come face to face with Terrence Eden. He was lucky he was a vital part of Eden's plan for the robbery or he would have been killed on the spot. Fortunately, Neal seemed to have realized that as well. When he'd faced Eden the next day, he had been wise enough to strike a different tone.

Recounting his meeting with Eden, especially the assault and its aftermath, had been difficult for Neal; he'd halted several times to steady himself. But once he'd moved on to the next day he settled into his former rhythm. Agent Littleton jotted down several points as Neal described his meeting with Eden. He'd tried a different approach, he explained, hoping to gain leverage but Eden had made it clear he had no bargaining power. He was told what he was to do and how he was to do it. He'd thought it was a terrible plan until he realized the diamonds were just a distraction; he was being used as a decoy. The real target was Bradford & Donnelly. He'd also learned about Andrew Carver, and had been told what would happen if he didn't do exactly what he was told.

"I didn't know about Max until I got there," Neal told them, speaking of his arrival at the Danford Building Saturday afternoon. "I'd planned to follow Eden's schedule but I thought I'd be able to make a call or get word to Peter somehow." He gave Peter a sheepish grin. "But with Max watching my every move, I had to get creative."

He walked them through the steps he'd taken, from his signing through the lobby and his run-in with Max in the security office to opening the safe and taking the diamonds. He triggered the alarm with his exit, just as he'd been told to do, and joined Eden in the waiting car. Trying to find a way to extend Eden's time in the city, he'd offered to broker the deal to sell the diamonds. Although he hadn't immediately accepted Neal's offer, Eden's greed had gotten the better of him. Neal explained his contact with Mozzie, without naming names, and his hope that the FBI would trace the transactions back the warehouse before the meeting. When that hadn't happened, he'd asked Eden to let Andrew be the one to take the diamonds to the meeting. He'd agreed under one condition; Neal had to convince Andrew that he'd been the one behind his kidnapping. If Neal did that, he'd let the boy go.

As Neal described his meeting with Andrew, and how Ken had been sent to make sure he upheld his part of the deal, there again was a change in his tone. Under usual circumstances, Neal didn't telegraph his emotional state but these weren't usual circumstances. Peter could see him growing increasingly uncomfortable as he neared yet another unpleasant part of the story; the beating Andrew had witnessed. A beating that had likely resulted in broken ribs, a punctured lung, and torn spleen. Peter could understand Neal's reluctance to relive that experience.

"I told Andrew I was the reason he'd been taken," Neal continued quietly, his voice strained, "and that I needed him to make a delivery for me. I said once he did that, he'd be free to go. I promised I'd get him some lunch, and then Ken and I left."

"What happened after the two of you left Andrew's room?" Agent Littleton asked when Neal's silence spanned several moments.

"Eden met us in the hallway," Neal's voice was low and unsteady. "He knew _everything_." He looked at Peter in desperation, "About the message I'd sent at the Danford Building; about the meeting being a setup. He was furious," he dropped his eyes, his hands busy with the edge of his blanket. "He hit me, kept hitting me..." Neal didn't raise his eyes, "but then he told Max and Ken to put me in with Andrew. That he would deal with me later when he could take his time." His voice was barely audible. "I...I don't remember very much after that."

"Did Eden say how he found out?" Agent Littleton asked. "Where he got his information?" That was a question Peter wanted an answer to as well.

It took a moment for Neal to reply. "No," he said, eyes remaining downcast. "But Max did. I heard him tell Ken that one of the officers that work at the Danford Building called him."

That answered that question. The leak had come from the NYPD, but it had not been intentional. The officer probably thought he was giving the head of security good news about the case. He didn't realize he was giving the inside man some very bad news instead.

"I'm sorry," the CNA stated as she opened the door, interrupting the exchange. Neal raised his head, a look of relief on his face as he hastily brushed a hand across his cheek. "I need to see to Mr. Caffrey's IV."

Her eyes went Agent Littleton expectantly and realizing he was in her way, the agent quickly got to his feet.

"Not a problem," he said, stepping over and clicking off the video camera. He glanced at Neal. "I think we all need a break anyway. I'll go out to the waiting room and get a soda." He looked at Peter. "Want to come with?"

Peter could tell by his eyes it was more a request than a question. "Sure," he answered, getting to his feet as well. He looked at Neal. "Need anything?"

Neal didn't verbalize a reply but just shook his head. With a nod to the CNA, Peter stepped out with Agent Littleton.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter Forty-Six**

"Well," Agent Littleton said as Peter joined him outside Neal's room. "What do you think?"

"I think I'd like to tie Eden to a chair and beat the hell out of him," Peter growled under his breath.

It was an inappropriate response, and Peter knew it, but the words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. He was tired, and the filter that screened his words between brain and mouth was apparently not working. He'd need to remedy that before his meeting with Agent Hughes, or he would confirm everyone's suspicions; he was allowing his personal feelings to interfere with his professional judgment. FBI agents built cases, arrested suspects, and incarcerated them; they didn't kick them as they were being cuffed or daydream about tying them up and beating them.

Agent Littleton chuckled, "I understand, Agent Burke, but I'm afraid we'll have to settle for sending him to prison."

"I know," Peter muttered. "It just after everything that man has..." He stopped himself. Although Peter's blood boiled at the things Eden had done to Neal, the current case against him had little to do with that. He glanced sideways at the agent. "What do I think about what?"

Peter asked but was pretty sure he knew the answer. Agent Littleton wanted to know if he, as the expert on Neal Caffrey, had detected any lies or omissions in Neal's statement. Peter had watched and listened closely as Neal described his kidnapping and the subsequence events that had followed. His statement, for the most part, had been delivered in a calm, controlled manner but Peter knew Neal was anything but calm, and the control he exercised was held by a fragile thread. He was still feeling the effects of the ketamine, his emotions were just under the surface, and each time he reached a difficult part in his story, that thread was stretched, and his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He'd been at such a point when the CNA had entered, and Agent Littleton had halted the interview, giving Neal a much-needed opportunity to regroup.

"Caffrey's statement so far," Agent Littleton replied as he pushed through the double doors that divided the patient hall from the public area of the hospital. "You're the expert; any observations you want to share?"

Neal rarely lied outright. Instead, he misdirected and equivocated, but there had been no such verbal gymnastics. Neal, for once, had been straightforward and Peter had seen no sign of duplicity. He had, however, noticed omissions, especially relating to Neal's interactions with Eden. But he'd made no note of them so, except for the instructions Agent Littleton had written across the top margin, the notepad in his hand remained empty.

"I think he's giving a pretty straightforward account," Peter replied. "How about you? Anything not adding up?"

"No," Agent Littleton said. "So far everything he's said lines up with what we've learned. I have to say; he's one of the best witnesses I've ever interviewed. He described McAllister down to his bad haircut, and he saw him what, maybe ten seconds as walked past a doorway? That's damn impressive."

"Well, that's Neal," Peter told him as they made their way down the hallway. "Not much gets by him, especially if he's in a tight spot and looking for a way out of it."

"Most people in tight spots are so freaked out they don't pay attention to anything but what's happening with them, and even then, their sense of recall isn't very good."

They'd reached the vending machines. Coffee, soda and high-calorie snacks were the offerings. Agent Littleton inserted his coins, pressed the button and waited for his Pepsi to drop into the dispenser.

"Neal's not most people," Peter's beverage of choice was coffee. "The more stress he's under, the more focused he becomes."

"Agent Jones said the same thing about him," the agent replied, "but still, his level of recall is incredible. It's like he had a recording in his head he was playing back and describing everything as he watched. Well," he added. " _Mostly_ everything."

"You think he's leaving something out?"

"To be so detailed in some aspects of his statement, he's pretty vague in others."

Omissions. Agent Littleton had caught them too. "I don't think he's leaving out anything pertinent to your case."

"It's not up to him to decide what's pertinent," the agent reminded him. "He's supposed to tell everything he remembers. He's not doing that; he's skipping over certain parts."

"If you're talking about the assaults," Peter replied. "His emotions are all over the place; I think it's understandable why he doesn't want to elaborate on them."

"It's not just that," Agent Littleton said with a shake of his head. "I know Eden is bound to have talked about their past association, those bad terms they parted on. Caffrey hasn't said one word about it. Why do you think that is?"

Peter knew exactly why. Neal didn't want to talk about his past association with Eden, answer questions about it or think about it. What had he said to the doctor? _I just want to go home and forget this ever happened._ That had been what he'd done ten years ago as well. He'd changed his name, his city, and tried to forget it had ever happened.

"Probably for the same reason he didn't use it to bargain for his freedom four years ago," Peter said. "I think it brings up memories he doesn't want to deal with."

"I feel for him, really I do," Agent Littleton said, "but he's going to have to deal with them; I might not need to know about his past with Eden to make my case, but the agents from Violent Crimes will."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The break had done Caffrey good; the CNA's arrival to adjust his medication could not have been better timed. He'd been upset when they'd turned off the camera, but now he again seemed composed. Still, Agent Littleton could see weariness as well as wariness in the blue eyes that met his.

"You ready to finish this up?" He asked. He knew Caffrey wanted it over with as soon as possible and Agent Burke had an appointment to keep.

"I'm ready," Caffrey replied.

Agent Littleton nodded and stepped over to the camera. He hit the record button, the red light appeared, and he took up his position at Caffrey's side. As before, He began by addressing the camera.

"The interview was halted for," he glanced at his watch. "About twelve minutes while hospital staff adjusted Mr. Caffrey's medication. If you are ready," he shifted his gaze to his witness, "we will continue. I'd like for you to begin when you left Andrew Carver and was assaulted by Eden."

It wasn't a flinch, Caffrey remained perfectly still, but there was a reaction at the phrase _assaulted by Eden_. It was fast, lasting only a second, but it was there; the slight tightening of the jaw, the narrowing of the eyes. There was also a quick flash of emotion. Fear? Pain? Anger? He wasn't sure. It was gone too fast to discern.

He thought Caffrey might resist a return to that difficult segment of his story, but he didn't. After the brief indication of undefined emotion, he complied, picking up where he'd been instructed. This time, however, his voice remained steady as he related what had transpired between him and Eden in the hallway. Eden had been furious, expressing his anger with a blow that had sent Caffrey reeling. He'd then been held so Eden could continue the beating. He said he knew what he'd done, that he'd broken the rules and he and the boy would suffer the consequences of his actions. Because of him, Eden had told him, Andrew would have to die. Caffrey had tried to bargain for the boy's life, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Ken, too, had tried to intercede but to no avail.

Max, on the other hand, had no qualms about killing. He'd urged Eden to kill them both and be done with it. Their time, he insisted, would be better spent getting out of the city before the authorities tracked them down. But Eden had other plans; he ordered the men to put Caffrey in with the boy until they were ready to vacate the warehouse.

"They put me in with Andrew," Caffrey continued, "and Ken asked Max what had happened, why all the plans had been changed. That's when I found out about the call."

"Did Maxwell mention the name of the officer?" Agent Littleton asked. "Or say anything that might identify him?"

"I don't think so," Caffrey said. "But he was kicking me so I couldn't hear everything he said; I just got bits and pieces."

"Maxwell was _kicking_ you?" Agent Littleton looked at Caffrey in mild surprise.

This must be the incident Andrew Carver had witnessed, the assault that likely caused Caffrey's life-threatening injuries. His spleen had been ruptured, and a broken rib had punctured his lung. It was a brutal attack yet Caffrey mentioned it without even a change in tone.

"Yes," Caffrey's eyes wavered, but his voice remained steady. "He was kicking me, but I'm sure the caller was someone who worked part-time at the Danford Building."

Caffrey had said little about the physical assaults thus far and didn't plan to talk about this one, either. _Move on,_ the blue eyes said.

The weariness in Caffrey's eyes had steadily been increasing, and though he was nearing the end of his narrative, there was still ground to cover before he was finished. There was no reason to press him on this or make things harder than they already were. So Agent Littleton moved on.

"What else to you remember?"

Caffrey continued with what Max had told Ken. They knew about the message he'd send to the FBI and that the diamond buy was a setup. The Feds had Terrence Eden's name, knew he was behind the robbery and about Bradford & Donnelly. They'd been locked out of the accounts before they'd completed their transactions and were scrambling to clear out before the authorities tracked them back to the warehouse. There was also something said about the case being turned over to Cyber Crimes and White Collar.

"I didn't understand that," Caffrey's voice wavered and Agent Littleton, who had been making a notation, looked up at the change in tone. Caffrey's gaze had shifted to Agent Burke and when he continued, the strain in his voice was unmistakable. "I thought White Collar had it the minute I was identified as the suspect. I didn't know..." Caffrey's eyes widened in sudden distress. "I just thought Peter..." His voice broke and, unable to maintain contact with his handler, he focused his attention on his hands.

Caffrey's sudden emotion caught Agent Littleton by surprise. He'd been shaken before, even to the point that he'd struggled to continue, but it had been at specific parts of his narrative; times he'd recalled the violence he'd experienced. This was different; it wasn't about what happened to him but about how he felt. It ws personal, something Caffrey had carefully avoided during his statement. And it wasn't about Eden, either. For some reason, this was about Agent Burke.

"You thought Peter _what_ , Neal?"Agent Littleton's eyes went to Agent Burke. Burke, too, was concerned about Caffrey's state of distress.

"Had had enough of me," Caffrey said, raising his head. Agent Littleton wasn't prepared for the anguish in the young man's face. "That he hadn't seen my message." His eyes suddenly filled with tears. "That he wasn't _coming_."

Agent Burke was on his feet, Caffrey's distress prompting him to action. "Neal," he began, moving across the room.

But Caffrey held up his hand, halting his progress. "Don't," he choked out, a look of desperation on his face. Caffrey's eyes moved from Burke's face to Agent Littleton's. "Please," he pleaded, his voice barely audible. " _Turn it off._ " His eyes darted to the video recorder before again settling on Agent Littleton's face. " I can't ..." tears began to spill down his cheeks, " _do_ this."

Agent Burke had warned him Caffrey's emotions were volatile, but he was still unprepared. Before he could respond to Caffrey's plea, Agent Burke, already on his feet, reached the camera and switched it off.

"You said anytime he needed a break," the agent said as the red light faded. "Well, he needs one." Of course, Agent Littleton agreed, but Burke's actions, as well as his expression, told him his approval wasn't necessary.

Caffrey's hands were now covering his face, his tears no longer silent. Agent Littleton got to his feet and didn't need Agent Burke's nod toward the door to encourage his exit. This had nothing to do with the case and he didn't need to be present for it.

"Call me when he's ready," he said as he passed the agent. "Take all the time you need."

He closed the door behind him, glad to be out of that high-stress, emotionally charged situation. He took his phone from his jacket pocket and checked the time. One-twenty-five. There was no way in hell Agent Burke was leaving at one-thirty and he, for one, was glad of it. He hated to think of what he'd done had Caffrey fallen apart like that and Agent Burke hadn't been there. He dialed the phone as he moved down the hallway.

"Hello Agent Hughes," he said into the receiver. "Agent Littleton here. I have a request to make."


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

Neal had been prepared for what was coming. Or at least he'd thought he'd been.

When he had to recount any aspect of being pummeled by Eden, it brought up unpleasant memories and feelings of being trapped and helpless. His chest would tighten, his throat close, and his heart pound painfully in his chest. He'd already encountered a couple of such spots, getting past the first with sheer will power and the second by the fortunate timing of the CNA's arrival in his room. Both Peter and Agent Littleton had left, giving him an opportunity not only to pull himself together but to preemptively prepare for what lay ahead. He was approaching a segment that would present an even greater challenge than the ones he'd already faced. It wasn't the pain he endured as Max kicked him but the memories it triggered that were cause for concern. Especially when his usual ability to push aside, or at least conceal, his emotions was hampered by the drugs his kidnappers had given him. This would be the worst, and hopefully final, hurdle he'd have to overcome. Today, at least, and for now, he had his hands full with that.

When he'd been tossed the floor and Max had begun his assault, emphasizing each phrase of explanation with a kick, Neal immediately had flashed to the past. He again felt the humiliation of begging for his life in front of a room full of onlookers as Terrence Eden landed blow after blow to his body. Those emotions had been followed by the despair of knowing even worse lay before him now. He'd decided the minute he recognized his captor that he would not give him the satisfaction of breaking him. Eden had broken Danny but he would not break Neal. He knew Eden had come to kill him, but he vowed to defy him with his last breath.

But that had been before the job offer and before he learned that Eden had taken Andrew Carver. That changed things; took his power away. He couldn't openly defy his abductor as long as he had Andrew. He was trapped, helpless, just like he'd been before. But he'd reminded himself that he had resources he hadn't had before. He had Peter; all he had to do was get a message to him and wait for he came to the rescue. Realizing that it might take some time for Peter to track them down, he'd decided to use another resource he hadnt had before; Mozzie. By arranging for the sale of the diamonds he'd taken from the safe, he could extend Eden's stay in the city. He hoped Peter would find them before the time for the meeting arrived, but if he didn't, Neal would use it as an opportunity to get Andrew to safety.

But that plan had fallen through, and although Andrew posed no threat, Neal knew Eden would kill him just the same. Not just because he enjoyed killing, but as a way to further punish Neal for both his past and present transgressions. Neal might not beg for his life, but Eden knew, given the right motivation, he'd beg for Andrew's. And it was true. Even if it were a wasted effort, if Andrew had to die he'd die knowing someone had tried to save him, had valued his life at least enough to raise a voice in protest. The worst thing about blacking out on the floor of Eden's office, not expecting to ever wake up again, had been how utterly alone he felt. How his world had gone black with him knowing he would disappear and no one would miss him. He might not be able to save Andrew's life or even make his death less painful, but at least he wouldn't die feeling like no one cared. That might be the only thing he could do for the boy, but he would do that.

It was those thoughts, memories, and feelings that flooded him as he lay on the floor, and it was those he feared would return when he reached that part of his story. He'd already fallen apart in front of Peter and that was bad enough; he didn't want to humiliate himself in front of Agent Littleton as well. Even worse, if he did, the whole thing would be captured on that damn video camera for the viewing pleasure of the FBI, prosecutors, defense attorneys, and possibly even Terrence Eden himself. That just couldn't happen. He didn't have much left to get through, he remembered very little after he'd been put in the trunk, but what there was would be hard. He was getting tired; he had felt himself beginning to tremble. He could clasp his hands to steady them, but he had to steady himself on the inside as well. He had to get through the rest of his statement without further incident.

What had happened in Eden's office a decade ago was over; it was part of another life and had nothing to do with Neal Caffrey. Andrew Carver was safe; he hadn't been beaten or killed. He was home with his mother. He'd grow up, graduate high school, go to college. Maybe he'd marry and have a family. All the reasons Neal had been in such a state of despair were no longer applicable. This wasn't the first time he'd been kidnapped and forced to commit a crime to keep an innocent person from harm. He had gotten through that experience fairly unscathed and had actually enjoyed testifying against Wilkes. This was no different.

By the time Peter and Agent Littleton returned, he was ready. All he had to do was get through the next few minutes, and he'd be done for the day. Both Agent Littleton and Peter had other engagements; they would have to go. Then he could relax and prepare for the next challenge. If what the doctor had said were true, he'd be less at the mercy of his emotions by the time the Agent from Violent Crimes arrived. He'd be more himself, more able to manage the situation to his advantage.

The interview resumed, and he did fine, even the look of pity in Agent Littleton's eyes and anger in Peter's hadn't derailed him. He'd moved forward, focusing not on what Max had done but on what he'd said. Relieved his emotions were not being triggered, he'd recalled what Max had said about his source and then began to report what he'd heard about the developments in the case. That was when it happened.

One minute he was telling Agent Littleton what Max had said about the investigation and the next he was sobbing into his hands, unable to stop himself. He'd been overcome with the same emotions that had left him brokenhearted on the floor of the storage room after he'd talked to Mozzie. That's when he'd learned the US Marshals, and not Peter, were going to meet him in the park. He'd known Peter would be furious about the robbery, but it never occurred to him that he'd hand the case over to the Marshals; that he would send them, armed and willing to shoot, instead of coming himself. At that point, he thought Peter had given up on him, didn't want the case or anything to do with him anymore. If Peter hadn't seen the footage from the Danford Building or spoken with witnesses, then he hadn't gotten Neal's message. Peter thought he was guilty, that he'd broken their deal and deserved whatever happened to him. Those thoughts had devastated him, removing any hope he had that Peter would find a way to save him. Even though he now knew the truth, that Peter hadn't abandoned him, those feelings of desolation and hopelessness had returned so quickly he could mount no counter attack. His throat had closed, choking off his words. In horror, he looked at Peter, who sprang to his feet with a look of concern on his face. Neal held up his hand to stop him and asked Agent Littleton to turn off the camera. His tears began to spill, and when the first sob broke from his lips, he covered his face.

It was humiliating, but he couldn't stop. Sobs shook him, sending sharp pains through his body.

"It's okay." In spite of his order to stay away, Peter was at his side. "Camera's off, and he's gone." He felt the mattress sink as Peter sat at the edge of the bed. Peter apparently wasn't leaving.

Neal was glad the camera was off and that Agent Littleton was gone but he couldn't answer, couldn't even take a breath without stuttering. Tears, mixing with snot, were dripping from beneath his hands. This was awful; it wasn't about Eden or even the past, it was about now. It was about Peter, about how important his friendship had become and how devastated he'd been when he thought he'd lost it. Peter's friendship, his approval, mattered more than it should. More than was safe. Mozzie had called him on it before, had warned him that such an attachment was ill-advised. If Peter ever became aware of it, it would just be another way to control him, more efficient even than the anklet around his foot. Mozzie insinuation that he needed Peter's approval had stung and his response had been one of angry denial. His reasons for wanting to please Peter were simple, he insisted; Peter happy kept him out of prison. That was all there was to it. Mozzie's eyebrows had raised at the fervor of his repudiation, an _I think the man doth protest too much_ expression on his face. But, wisely, he'd let it go without further comment.

Mozzie knew he was right and in spite of his protest so did Neal. He'd messed up; he'd somehow fallen into a familiar trap. Terrence Eden. Peter Burke. There was something wrong with him, something that made him keep repeating the same mistake. He was a criminal; Peter was the FBI. There was no basis for any real friendship. He had to disengage, cut the emotional ties that he'd allowed to form. But until he did, Peter could never know. Mozzie was right; Peter already dangled freedom in front of him like a carrot, he didn't need to know there were things Neal valued even more than that.

The bed shifted slightly, and he felt a touch on his shoulder. "It's okay, Neal," Peter said reassuringly "Remember what the doctor said; this will pass."

Neal, his hands doing little to stifle the broken sounds that continued to escape him, only nodded in reply. A moment later, an arm moved behind his back, and Peter pulled him forward. Already feeling too exposed and vulnerable, Neal instinctively resisted but only briefly before Peter's insistence won out. Neal found himself wrapped in an awkward embrace and, now safe from Peter's sight, he dropped his hands from his face. The feeling of Peter's arms around him both decreased and increased the ache in his heart. It decreased because he felt safe and cared for, something he desperately needed right now but it increased because he knew it wouldn't last. It never did.

Exhausted, Neal could feel his torrent of emotion finally losing intensity. Although sobs still shook him, they came less frequently now that his tears were mostly spent. He knew it was time to pull away, to try to salvage some dignity, but he just wanted to rest where he was for a few more moments. However, the safe feeling evaporated more quickly than he'd expected.

"Back in Chicago," Neal grew tense at Peter's words, "you were just a kid and Eden-" alarmed, Neal raised his hands to push away but Peter didn't allow it. In fact, he only held him tighter. "You were alone then, Neal, but you're not alone anymore. _You have to know that."_

It wasn't just Peter's words, but the emotion Neal heard in them that caused him to erupt into fresh tears. Hands that had risen to push Peter away now pulled him closer as Neal buried his face in his shirt, accepting his words with overwhelming gratitude. Whether it lasted or not, right now Peter meant them, and that was enough. The safety he felt, the acceptance, seemed oddly familiar, stirring what seemed to be a memory but must have been a dream instead. His mind had been so scrambled, his dreams so vivid, that at times he'd been confused as to what was real and what wasn't. But this was real; it wasn't a dream. Peter hadn't abandoned him, he had saved him and was with him now. Again, Neal found himself weeping but this time it was from gratitude and not heartbreak.

Peter's grip relaxed and though the words he muttered into the top of Neal's head didn't register, the low, steady sound of his voice, coupled with the rhythmic movement of his hand against the back of his head, did. After what seemed like hours, finally, Neal had no more tears to shed. His energy completely spent, Neal turned his head and rested his cheek against Peter's now damp shirt front.

"I know this is hard," Peter said once Neal's distress had quietened, "but it will get easier, you'll see. You will get through this, I promise."

Neal's chest hurt, and it hurt to breathe, but he didn't want to move. He didn't want to look at Peter, to see pity in his eyes. He didn't want a nurse checking him, asking how he felt with questioning eyes. He didn't want to face Agent Littleton or finish the interview. He didn't want the camera capturing the aftermath of his meltdown; his blotchy face and red eyes. He didn't want to talk to the Agent from Violent Crimes about the letter or answer questions about what he'd done in Chicago. He didn't want to talk about Eden or to testify against him in court. He didn't want to keep falling apart. Peter thought it was the Ketamine, but Neal wasn't so sure. He was afraid it was more than that. He was afraid this was who he now that Terrence Eden was back in his life.

"I don't want to get through it," Neal's voice was raspy, his throat sore. "I just want to go home and forget all of it."

Peter's hand stopped its gentle movement. "I know you want that," he said after a brief pause, "but we both know it doesn't work that way. We talked about this before; you can't just pretend it didn't happen, Neal, you have to deal with it."

 _You have to deal with it_. The words weren't harsh but there was an underlying tone of authority in Peter's voice. Neal stiffened; it wasn't _cowboy up_ but the sentiment was the same. First his face flushed in shame, then in anger as he pulled free of Peter's embrace.

"And by _deal with it_ ," he challenged hotly, feeling his cheeks burn, "You mean give statements and answer questions, don't you?"

Peter looked surprised by his angry outburst. "Well," he said, "that's part of it."

"And tell you about Mr. Eden's operation back in Chicago?" Neal's tone was accusatory. He knew what was coming, what was going to be demanded of him. "Help you build the cases against him?"

Peter got to his feet. "Not me," he clarified, frowning slightly. "They're not my cases, but help the FBI, yes."

Neal had been released into the custody of the FBI; they owned him, just like Eden had. And like Eden, when they asked you to do something, it wasn't a request.

"What if I don't _want_ to help the FBI?" Neal's sounded like a petulant child even to his own ears. "What if I don't want to do _any of this_?"

 _Then you can go back to prison until you change your mind._ That was the answer. Neal knew, sooner or later, it would come down to that.

"That's your choice to make, Neal," Peter replied, "but I think you need to-"

"Remember our agreement?" Neal interrupted, his voice rising with his panic. "Remember what will happen if I don't do _what I'm told_?"

"That's not what I was going to say, Neal," he corrected. "I do think you need to do this, not for the FBI," he added hastily before Neal could object, "but for _yourself,_ " There was a pained look on his tired face. "If you want to put this behind you, you need to face Eden and make him pay for what he's done," Peter reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Neal's shoulder. "That's the only way you're really free of him."

It wasn't the response Neal had anticipated; Peter's expression was one of compassion, concern, and Neal felt his anger melt away.

He knew, on some level, Peter was right but it wasn't that simple. Part of the reason he survived, some could even say thrived, was that he knew his limits. He might not admit he had them, or broadcast what they were, but he was keenly aware of the things he could not do. And this was one of them.

Agent Littleton's interview was tame compared to what was coming and he'd still fallen apart. What would happen tomorrow, when the agent from Chicago asked him about the letter? And that would just be the beginning of the tough questions he'd be asked. After that, there would be more questions, more interviews; testimonies and cross-examinations. It would be an emotional marathon and Neal wasn't able to manage even a short dash without dissolving into tears.

He'd told Peter he didn't want to do this but the truth was that he couldn't; he couldn't dredge up the past. If he did he'd lose himself, lose Neal Caffrey, and everything he'd worked to create. However, if he didn't, the FBI would nullify his work agreement and send him back to prison. He'd lose everything, lose _everyone,_ he cared about.

Never had he felt so trapped. He thought he had no more left, but to his dismay, he felt hot tears rise in his eyes.

"But what if I _can't_ ?" He asked. "What happens to me then?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter had seen _volatile emotions_ but the _erratic mood swings_ that accompanied Neal's latest episode had caught him by surprise. Just being witness to Neal's rollercoaster emotions over the past fifteen minutes was exhausting; he could only imagine what it was like to be Neal.

He'd had been at Neal's side before the door closed before Agent Littleton but had been at somewhat of a loss as to how to proceed. The last time Neal had been so distraught, he'd moved his hands away from his face, hoping to bring him to the present and away from the past, but this time he had hesitated. Before Neal had welcomed his comfort, had even reached out to him; or at least Danny had. That was who Peter felt he had been dealing with then, in those first hours after Neal had regained consciousness and had no defenses in place. But this was Neal. It was Neal who'd managed his Ketamine- influenced emotions in spite of the difficult subject matter he'd been required to cover. It was also Neal who, with a mix of stern warning and desperation, had held up his hand to stop Peter from approaching when he'd started to break down. Neal, even in this condition, was much less approachable than Danny.

And this time his distress wasn't about a past relationship with Terrence Eden, it was about his current relationship with Peter Burke and that complicated things for both of them.

Ever since Peter had learned about Neal's past and Terrence Eden's management style, he'd felt uneasy about his strategy for keeping Neal motivated. He'd never threatened Neal with physical violence, but he did threaten to send him back to prison, an environment where violence was a daily occurrence. He also never hesitated to remind him that everything he had in his life, from his fancy clothes to the apartment at June's, was only his as long as he continued to deliver quality work for the FBI. He took every opportunity to make it clear that, for all intents and purposes, Neal belonged to the FBI and that, as his handler, he was the one in charge.

 _I can do whatever I want with you._ He'd said those very words to Neal, words he felt sure Neal had probably heard before. It was a handler's standard operating procedure to maintain firm control, and as he'd learned, Eden had been a very capable handler.

But according to the background he'd read, Eden didn't just use the provision of basic needs as a means of controlling his recruits. He used something else as well. He provided them with a pseudo-family, setting himself as the patriarch. It was something many of them needed as much as food and shelter. As exploitive and dysfunctional as it was, it gave them a place to belong, a sense of purpose, and Eden used that to rally them into a loyal, cohesive, unit.

A place to belong. A purpose. A family. Things Neal had needed then and, as Peter had come to realize, he needed now, too.

Something else Neal needed in his life was a father figure, and Elizabeth had early on suggested that Neal had unconsciously cast him into that role. Her reasoning made sense, explaining some Caffrey oddities, but Peter had resisted the idea. However, after over a year of working with Neal on a daily basis, he came to see it was indeed an underlying component of their relationship. He knew Neal wasn't consciously aware of it, he'd be horrified at the prospect, and Peter certainly never planned to bring it up. It wasn't a problem; after all, the role of father and handler were, in many ways, very similar. Both were responsible for keeping their ward in line and for protecting them from harm. Encouragement and reproach, words of wisdom and advice, all fell within those duties. Likewise, teens and certain CI's also shared similarities. Both tested boundaries, were less than forthcoming about their activities, and often resented the authority exercised over them.

Neal had the role rebellious teen/CI down perfectly and Peter thought he'd done a fair job managing his duel role as well. But there was about to be a divergence. A handler's first priority was the Bureau; his responsibility, and concern, for a CI ended when that CI was no longer an asset. Neal didn't want to dredge up the past, didn't want to help the FBI make their cases against Eden. The kidnapping and robbery charges were solid, even without Neal, but the trafficking case, if there even was one, depended entirely on his cooperation. As his handler, it would fall to Peter to convince Neal to assist in the investigations and to remind him what was at stake if he didn't. He'd applied pressure before and always felt justified. After all, the work agreement had been Neal's idea and the terms had been clear. Deliver results and stay out of prison; fail to do so and go back.

But this was different. It wasn't just another case file that had found it's way to his desk and Neal wasn't just a CI who could provide vital information. He was the victim here; he'd done nothing wrong. To apply that kind of pressure to him now seemed cruel and unfair. Neal could have used what he knew on Eden to strike a deal with the FBI years ago but he hadn't. To Neal, four years in a maximum security seemed safer than facing his past.

What had Neal said when he saw the photo from the Precinct in Chicago? _That's not me; that's not who I am anymore._

But that was who Peter saw right now; a scared kid with no where to turn.

The self-doubt, fear, and desperation he saw in Neal's eyes reminded him of those first, terrible hours when Neal had been an open book; when he'd been more Danny than Neal.

This wasn't about being uncooperative; it was simply about survival.

A handler's priority was the bureau but a father's priority was his son's well-being. This was where his dual role diverged.

Peter knew Neal needed to face his past but no one, not even the FBI, had the right to force him into doing it before he was ready.

Neal had asked him a question and was waiting for his answer.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he said with determination. "If you're not ready to do this then we'll figure something out."


	48. Chapter 48

_Thanks so much for all who continue to read (such a L-O-N-G story) and take the time to send me messages of encouragement. I keep saying it means more than you know but, by now, I hope you already realize that._

 **Chapter Forty-eight**

Peter's words brought Neal a modicum of relief but not as much as he had hoped. Neal's concern, although less acute, remained etched on his face.

"You're already in trouble because of me," Neal's voice was still unsteady. Tears hadn't fallen, but the threat was there. "Elizabeth told me what happened, that you were suspended and-"

"I got my badge back," Peter assured him. "Once Agent Hughes understood the facts of the case, that you'd been taken, he reinstated me."

Neal looked doubtful. "But you still have an ORP inquiry, and they're already questioning your judgment where I'm concerned- " Neal stopped, his eyes widened. "What time is it?"

Peter frowned at the question but then realized why Neal was asking; his meeting with the Section Chief. Neal's distress had completely pushed it from his mind.

"Damn," he said, checking his watch. "I should have left fifteen minutes ago."

"Go, Peter," Neal said, nodding toward the door. "Get to your meeting; we'll both be in trouble if you don't."

Neal was right. He couldn't afford to further irritate his boss, and he did need to touch base with both Hughes and Agent Jones before the OPR hearing. But still, if he was there, he couldn't be here.

"Agent Littleton is around somewhere, Neal," he warned, "waiting to get the rest of your statement."

"I know he is," Neal glanced towards the camera with a look of distaste. "But I can handle things here."

"You sure?" Peter asked doubtfully. Neal's tears had receded, but he knew how quickly that could change. His question brought a flash of irritation to Neal's eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replied sharply. "Just get me something to wash my face with and tell Agent Littleton I'll be ready in fifteen minutes."

The question had offended him, had insulted his pride, and Peter found that encouraging. It was a sign he was again more Neal than Danny. "Ready for what?"

"To finish that damn statement," he replied irritably. "What else?"

It was an about-face, but Peter saw it for what it was. Neal's attempt to help. He stepped into the patient restroom and wet a washcloth beneath the running faucet. Once soaked, he twisted it to remove the excess water and then handed it to Neal.

Neal sank back onto his pillow, pressing the cloth against his red-rimmed eyes. Peter retrieved his shaving bag and stowed it in the duffle Elizabeth had brought him. He then unplugged his phone charger and packed it as well. Bag in hand, he was ready to head back to the city.

"You sure about this?" He asked again. Neal didn't exactly present the picture of readiness.

"Stop asking me that," Neal said from beneath the cloth. "You do your meeting, and I'll do mine."

"Okay," Peter conceded, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "Fifteen minutes?"

"Fifteen minutes." Neal raised the cloth up. "And Peter, go home tonight. Sleep in your own bed. I'll be fine on my own."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Agent Littleton tapped on the door before opening it just wide enough to stick his head in. "You ready for me?"

He'd been sitting in the cafeteria, wondering how long he should wait before checking on his witness when he'd gotten the call from Agent Burke. After their brief exchange, he'd waited exactly fifteen minutes before arriving at Caffrey's door. During that time, he placed a call to Agent Hughes and then reviewed the notes he'd taken so far. Caffrey had given a very thorough account; his testimony, in conjunction with McAllister's and the Carver boy's, would send Terrence Eden away for the rest of his life.

He imagined Caffrey had been reclining until he'd heard the knock because he was adjusting his position when Agent Littleton peered in. His grimace of pain quickly transformed into a strained smile. "I guess I'd better be."

Agent Littleton stepped into the room and pushed the door closed behind him. Hopefully, this wouldn't take long. Caffrey had to be exhausted. Moving closer, he saw the blue eyes weren't only weak, they were bloodshot as well. He frowned, having second thoughts about continuing without Agent Burke.

"This can wait," Agent Littleton offered. "If you'd rather finish tomorrow-"

"I'd rather finish _now_ ," Caffrey snapped irritably. "I'm sorry," he added, his tone contrite. "There isn't that much more, and I just want this to be over with."

An echo of what he'd said at the beginning of the interview. He wasn't up to it now just as he'd not been up to it then, but Agent Littleton respected his determination to finish what he's started. He'd interviewed witnesses who'd milked a single punch to the jaw for two days, with their doctor's approval. Caffrey had a much better case for a free pass, and yet he hadn't used it. He moved across the room to where the camera sat on the table. The sooner they started, the sooner it would be over. "Do you mind?"

Caffrey's transient expression told him what he already knew; he wasn't a fan of the camera, but still he gave a small shake of his head. Agent Littleton pressed the record button and, notepad in hand returned to his previous perch. Again, he went through the procedure for beginning another segment of the statement, addressing first the camera and then asking Caffrey to begin where he'd left off.

"Well," Caffrey began, "I believe I left off at the part where I'd learned from Max that someone who worked security at the Danford Building had given him information on the case. He knew about the message I'd sent to the FBI and that the meeting in the park was a setup."

Caffrey moved through the rest of his statement fairly quickly and though he didn't always maintain eye contact, his tone, for the most part, remained steady. He conveyed the events in a detached, matter of fact way, never encountering any emotional difficulty. Agent Littleton was grateful for that.

Max wanted to kill them on the spot, Eden wanted to wait and enjoy it, and Ken wanted nothing to do with murder. Andrew had heard what Max had said about the FBI and was hopeful that a rescue was underway, but Caffrey knew they'd be moved before help could arrive. He'd tried to explain the best chance of escape would come after they left the warehouse and before they arrived at their destination. Once they were on the streets of the city, Caffrey planned to create a diversion, giving Andrew a chance to open the door and get away.

If he had a plan for escaping himself, he didn't mention it.

It hadn't taken long for Eden and his men to be ready to move, and the two kidnappers returned to retrieve their prisoners. Caffrey wasn't able to walk on his own, so Ken had been tasked with helping him to the cargo bay. Caffrey took the opportunity to urge him to do the right thing, to do something to save Andrew, but the man said his involvement was coming to an end. He had nothing to do with what happened after that. Caffrey told him if he didn't do anything to stop it, he would be as guilty as the others. Still, he sensed no movement in Ken's stance, and he and Andrew were escorted to where Eden was waiting for them.

Of course, Agent Littleton knew there had been movement; Caffrey's words had inspired the man to pick up the phone and call the FBI tip line. Andrew would have survived without him making that call, but Caffrey wouldn't have.

When they'd reached the car, Caffrey learned that he was not going to be riding in the back seat as he had on his previous trip. Instead, Eden had tossed him into the trunk.

"That's really about all I remember," Caffrey finished. "After that, things are pretty muddled. I know Andrew was in there with me and I remember telling him how to find the trunk release lever, but I don't remember him pulling it." He shook his head. "I must have been out by then. The next clear thing I remember is waking up here in the hospital."

"Okay," Agent Littleton said, glad the interview was coming to an end. Caffrey had done well, but it was taking its toll. The stamp of exhaustion on his face had grown more pronounced. "I think that about covers it, then. I do have a couple of follow-up questions if you don't mind."

Caffrey nodded. "Of course."

"According to the doctor, you were given Ketamine sometime yesterday afternoon. Do you have any memory of that? Or who might have dosed you?"

"No," Caffrey shook his head, "I remember Max sticking me with something when they grabbed me, but I don't remember getting stuck yesterday. I don't know who did it or when it happened."

Given Caffrey's condition when he'd been pulled from the trunk of Eden's car, Agent Littleton wasn't surprised that Neal had little memory of the trip.

"Understandable given the circumstances," Agent Littleton remarked, moving on to his second question. "What about Ken?" There was still a kidnapper at large. "Do you remember anything else about him? Anything that might help identify him?"

"Identify him?" Caffrey repeated. "Did you not arrest him?"

"No," Agent Littleton told him. "He wasn't at the hangar and by the time we got to the warehouse, he was long gone."

"I see," Caffrey didn't appear bothered the man hadn't yet been apprehended. "He wasn't like them, you know," he gave a small shrug. "He seemed like a decent person who got mixed up in something and then regretted it."

"I think you might be right," Agent Littleton agreed. "We got a call to the FBI tip line, just after Eden left the warehouse." Caffrey's eyes widened. "The caller gave us a description of Eden's car, told us you and the Carver boy were in the trunk and told us where he was going. That's how we found out about the hangar, Neal, that's how we found you."

Caffrey looked stunned. "He did it. He did the right thing."

"Yes he did," Agent Littleton admitted, "but he still kidnapped two people. Anything else you can tell me about him?"

Caffrey frowned. "Nothing more than I've already said. I don't think he knew Eden before this, but he did seem to know Max," Caffrey ventured. "Maybe Max brought him in."

McAllister admitted to being the link between Eden and Maxwell. Hopefully, digging into Maxwell's associates would provide a clue to the identity of the other man.

"Thank you, Neal," Agent Littleton said with sincerity. "That's all I have."

Caffrey had done his part; it was time to let him rest. He looked like he needed it. The interview finished, Agent Littleton rose from the chair and stopped the recording.

Caffrey visibly relaxed once the camera was off, allowing himself to lean heavily against the raised bed. He watched as Agent Littleton packed up the video camera. "What now?"

"I take this and put together a statement," he replied. "I'll have it typed up, then have you read and sign it. Should have it by tomorrow."

"Hopefully I'll be out of here tomorrow." Caffrey shifted on the bed, pressing a hand to his side, "Save you a trip."

"Well, if not," Agent Littleton said doubtfully, watching as discomfort vied with exhaustion for top billing on Caffrey's face, "I don't mind bringing it up," he frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Caffrey's voice was strained. "I guess I'm just starting to miss that morphine drip."

"Want me to call someone?" Agent Littleton could see a sheen of sweat on Caffrey's forehead. "See if they can do something about the pain?"

Caffrey shook his head. "No, I'll be okay. I just need to rest a little."

Agent Littleton was not convinced. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Then I'll get out and let you rest," he said, fully intending to send someone in to check Caffrey despite his wishes. "I know this wasn't easy, Neal, and you had every right to put me off, but you didn't. I appreciate that. Anything you need before I go?"

He'd expected a quick dismissal, but instead, Caffrey hesitated. "This case," his brow furrowed, "It's solid, isn't it?"

The question surprised him. He nodded. "It's the Rock of Gilbrater, why?"

"No way he can wiggle out, find a loophole?" Caffrey's tired eyes showed doubt, concern. "He's good at that you know."

"I know he is," Agent Littleton admitted, thinking of the letter Caffrey had left all those years ago, "but not this time. We have him dead to rights. On all of it."

Caffrey seemed to accept that; his face relaxed a bit. "How long is he looking at?" He asked after a moment. "How many years?"

"Depends on the judge," Agent Littleton said truthfully, "but given the charges and his history, he'll be lucky to get less than forty years."

"So," Caffrey said thoughtfully, "even if they give him time off with good behavior, he'll serve what? Thirty-four?"

"Sounds about right," Agent Littleton replied. "By my count, if he lives that long, it will make him about ninety when he gets out." He watched Caffrey closely, wondering what was going through his mind. He seemed to be contemplating something. "Will that do?"

Caffrey nodded slowly. "I guess it will have to."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter was making good time so far, but he hadn't reached the NJ/NY border yet. That was when traffic would likely slow to a crawl. He wouldn't make it to the office by 3:00 pm but fortunately Agent Littleton had already cleared his delay with Agent Hughes. Once he'd learned about the call the agent had placed to the section chief, he'd been tempted to stay but decided against it. In his distress, Neal had all but declared he didn't want to cooperate with the FBI but then he'd reversed his decision when he thought it would help Peter. Neal's mental state had greatly improved over the past twenty-four hours, but he was still emotionally unpredictable. He'd decided to finish his statement with Agent Littleton so Peter could get to his meeting. If that motivation was removed, he could just as quickly decide not to. It hadn't escaped his notice, either, that he had been the source of Neal's latest emotional outburst. It occurred to him that at this point, Neal might actually do better without him there.

Of course, that didn't stop him from worrying so when he got the text message from Agent Littleton that Neal had finished his statement without incident, he felt great relief. That concern now removed from the forefront of his mind, a new one took its place: what he was going to say to Agent Hughes.

His instincts had been correct; Neal hadn't escaped, he'd been kidnapped. But as Agent Hughes would likely point out, even a broken clock was right twice a day.

Why had he not followed protocol when he realized Neal's tracking data had been tampered with? That was the question Agent Hughes, and OPR would want answered.

He could say it was because he first wanted to verify that Neal wasn't at Riverside Drive. That was reasonable, but once he'd determined Neal wasn't there, he still hadn't made the call. Why?

Was it because he didn't want to believe Neal had broken their agreement? Because he didn't want Neal sent back to prison over some stupid, impulsive stunt? Because if Neal had run, he hoped he'd be able to find him before anyone knew he was gone? That was what Agent Hughes thought had motivated his actions.

No, Peter told himself with certainty. Although each one of those things was true, none of them had been a factor in his decision not to call. He hadn't called because he knew something was off. Neal running made no sense; he'd seen no indication of subterfuge, no sign he was up to anything. And Mozzie was genuinely worried, worried enough to ask him for help. Worried enough to tell him about Neal's plan B and give him the number of his pre-paid cell phone.

 _Mozzie._ Mozzie was the reason he'd checked the data in the first place. Mozzie had called looking for Neal.

That might work.

He'd gotten a call from a friend of Neal's who thought he might be in trouble. Because of that, he'd pulled up the tracking data and realized something was wrong. He called Agent Jones to have him check the GPS on Neal's phone, then had driven to Riverside Drive. On the way, he'd received another call, this one from Neal's landlady, who also expressed concern for Neal's safety. After speaking further with both June and Mozzie, Peter determined Neal might have been taken against his will. June's description of Neal's abductors was worrisome, and it was clear they had the means to tamper with his tracking data. Afraid a call to the authorities could alert the suspects and put Neal in more danger, Peter had chosen to keep it within the White Collar Office until he could gather more information. He'd sent his sources- _his source_ -to see if there was any talk on the street and he and Jones began to search for Neal and the people who'd taken him.

That was all fundamentally true; he could make a valid case for every decision he'd made. He had relied on his knowledge of Neal and the information he'd been presented with at the time. In the end, no one could argue that he had made a wrong choice. Terrence Eden and his cohorts were in custody; Neal and Andrew Carver were both safe.

The only question that remained was what had motivated his actions. Had he acted as Neal's friend or as his handler?

Even though concern for Neal's safety had trumped a strict adherence to policy, he had never once considered letting him run. Had the facts supported that he had purposely fled Federal custody, Peter would have used every mean at his disposal to hunt him down and send him back to prison. He would have hated for it to end that way between them it but it was his job and he would have done it. He'd admit the line between handler and friend was sometimes a thin one but it was clear and he hadn't crossed it.

At least, not often, and not until recently. He _had_ kicked a handcuffed suspect as he lay on the floor and he _had_ promised Neal he'd help him get out of testifying if he didn't think he could do it. Those were both indications that he was letting his personal feelings get in the way of his job. But he didn't regret either action. Eden deserved much worse than a kick in the ribs. Just the memory of how Neal had looked when he'd seen him in that trunk...

He felt his anger rise. After everything Neal had been through, he deserved someone to put his needs first for a change. He'd never had that in the past, even from his own parents. No wonder Neal had learned to fend for himself with little regard to how it impacted others. What other choice had he ever...

He stopped himself. He couldn't have that attitude when he walked into Agent Hughes office or when he met with the Office of Professional Responsibility. He was an FBI agent, and Neal Caffrey was an asset. He was a handler. Not a friend, and definitely not a father figure.

His only action up for review was that first, critical decision not to notify the Marshal Service about Neal's tracking data. That was the only thing, at this point, he had to give an explanation for.

He ran through it all again in his head. He was completely justified in the choices he had made. Motivation and personal feelings aside, he had behaved like an experienced, well-trained agent. He had assessed the situation and had acted accordingly.

The subsequent investigation proved his judgment had been sound. He had forty-five minutes, give or take, to get ready to pitch that to Agent Hughes.


	49. Chapter 49

_Thanks to all who read and review. Your words of encouragement and insights are so very much appreciated._

 **Chapter Forty-nine**

The White Collar office was its usual hub of activity right up until Peter cleared the doors. Then things ground to a stop. Movement ceased, conversations halted and all eyes fell on him. It didn't happen all at once; it was sort of a wave that moved through the office, beginning with those closest in proximity and moving out across the entire area. It only lasted a few seconds; then everyone went back to what they were doing.

Except for Diana. She'd been standing near Jones' desk, engaged in some discussion, but now she approached him with a look of reproach on her face.

"You should have called me, boss," she reprimanded before he could speak. "I'm part of this team too, and I didn't know anything about this until I came in this morning."

"I'm sorry, Diana," Peter replied. "But you were out of town, and things happened fast. I take it you're up to speed?"

"Yeah," she still sounded irritated at having been excluded. At least she wouldn't be making a statement to OPR. "Agent Jones filled me in, and I even spoke briefly with Agent Littleton. He looks more like a student at NYU than a Federal Agent."

"I know," Peter had made the same observation, as had Hughes, but Littleton had proven himself. "but he's handled this investigation like a pro. He's a good agent."

"I could see not much gets by him," they had reached Agent Jones' desk. "Kind of reminds me of Caffrey. Except he flirts less."

"Speaking of Caffrey," Jones chimed in. "How's he doing?"

"As well as can be expected, given the circumstances," Peter told him. "If there are no complications, they might let him go home tomorrow."

Physically, Neal would make a full recovery, but Peter's concerns had shifted from his physical injuries to the emotional ones. Those, he feared, would take much longer to sort out. And that was if Neal even tried to sort them out. Once he was again able to stuff his feelings, odds were that was what Neal would do. It was his Standard Operating Procedure when dealing with emotional issues. He'd minimize, deflect and deny. Pretend it didn't affect him and try to forget that it had. Although Peter knew it wasn't the most healthy way to cope with traumatic experiences, he could understand the instinct. He'd just spent the past half hour trying to push his own emotions aside. He had to if he wanted to present a calm and objective case for his actions.

"That's good to hear," Diana said. "Jones told me the shape he was in when you guys found him. He said another two minutes..." Her voice wavered with uncharacteristic emotion, but she quickly regained her composure. "I'm just glad he's okay." Back to business, she nodded at the manila envelope he was holding. "What you got?"

"It's a copy of a file Agent Littleton showed Jones and me yesterday. From an old investigation into Terrence Eden."

"Agent Jones was just telling me about that," Diana said. "May I?"

He handed it to her, then glanced up at the section chief 's office. The door was closed. "Agent Hughes in a meeting?"

"He's in with an Agent Parker, Violent Crimes," she replied, removing the documents from the envelope, "and a retired Chicago Detective named James Strand. They got here about ten minutes ago."

The agent from Chicago had arrived a day early. "Strand?" Peter repeated with furrowed brow. "That name sounds familiar."

"Probably saw it in the file," Jones told him. "He's the detective Neal left the letter with. He'd put his name in the FBI file with a request to be contacted if anything ever turned up. Well," He added wryly, "Something turned up."

" _Neal._ " Diana had said the name quietly, almost under her breath, but it wasn't in response to Jones' words. She'd found the photo. "Jones said was young, but geez, boss," She looked up at Peter in question. "How old _was_ he?"

"I don't know," Peter answered, carefully keeping his eyes from the photo. He didn't need to see it. "The detective said between fourteen and sixteen." He again looked up at the closed door. "Is the detective here to make a positive ID?"

"I guess so," Jones replied. "Agent Parker said they plan to drive up and talk to Caffrey in the morning. How did he do with Agent Littleton today?"

"He got through his statement," Peter admitted, "but it wasn't easy on him. He's physically weak and emotionally," he frowned, "he's shaky. The doctor says it's still the Ketamine, but I don't know." He shook his head. "This is a lot to handle, even for Neal."

"Burke!" Peter looked up. Agent Hughes had exited his office and was standing at the edge of the catwalk. He gave Peter the two finger summons.

"Well," he said. "Here we go."

Peter climbed the stairs, aware that Hughes was watching him the entire way up. He said nothing but gestured for Peter to enter and then followed him in. The two men waiting inside rose and Agent Hughes made the introductions.

"This is Agent Burke," he said as he moved behind his desk. "Peter, this is Agent Parker from the Chicago Violent Crimes " Peter shook the agent's hand, "and Detective Strand from the Chicago Police Department."

"Retired," the older man added with a tired smile as he took Peter's proffered hand. "I'm just tagging along."

"Agent Parker says Caffrey may have some information on an old Violent Crimes case," Agent Hughes informed him. "Dating back about a decade."

"Yeah, Agent Littleton filled me in," Peter replied before addressing the visiting agent. "but I thought you were flying in tomorrow?"

"I decided to come in a day early," Agent Parker explained, re-taking his seat. The Detective and Hughes followed suit, but Peter remained standing. "I plan to meet with Mr. Caffrey tomorrow," the agent continued, "but I wanted a chance to speak with you all first. As I was telling Agent Hughes," he nodded at the older man, "once we were notified by Agent Littleton I pulled the old case file. I have to admit; your CI looks like the boy who left the letter."

"He is the boy who left the letter," Detective Strand inserted with certainty. "I remember that day like it was yesterday. I remember _that boy._ It's _him_." Jones had assumed Detective Strand had come to make a positive identification, but it sounded as if he'd already made his mind up.

"I noticed there was nothing in Mr. Caffrey's FBI file about his background," Agent Parker commented, eyeing Peter with curiosity "Nothing about his family or any teenage run-ins with the law. Nothing before nine years ago."

"I've never found anything from earlier than that," Peter admitted, "And believe me, I looked. The birth certificate I finally located lists St. Louis as his birth place, but I found no record of him there, or anywhere else for that matter."

"I'm sure you suspected the Birth Certificate was fabricated," Agent Parker said. "Especially given you investigated him for Bond Forgery."

"If you've seen his file, you know I've investigated him for a lot of things," Peter responded. "Bond Forgery was just the one I could prove. And yes, it entered my mind it was a fake."

"Well, I have a theory about that," the agent continued. "If he's the boy who left the letter I believe the man who wrote that letter _created_ Neal Caffrey; and probably a new identity for himself as well. That's how they were able to disappear."

Agent Littleton hadn't shared their theory with Agent Parker; that Neal hadn't just left the letter but had written it as well. Or, if he had shared that information, the Agent had dismissed it. He thought about mentioning it but only for about a half a second. This wasn't his case, and he hadn't been asked for his opinion.

He wasn't lying; he just wasn't volunteering any information.

He felt a bit uneasy, realizing how much his justification sounded like Neal. _I didn't lie. I just didn't tell the truth._

He shook it off. This wasn't his truth to tell; it was Neal's. Anyway, he reminded himself, it wasn't like a conviction was on the line. Whether Neal talked or didn't talk, Eden's fate was already sealed. So if Neal wasn't ready to delve into that part of his past, there was no reason to force him to.

"Agent Parker was telling me about Eden's operation back then, how he manipulated troubled teens into working for him," Agent Hughes eyes met Peter's. "You've wondered how Caffrey got started on the criminal path at such an early age. Looks like now you know." Peter sensed that Agent Hughes, too, was now reevaluating his own preconceived notions of Neal Caffrey.

"Your CI is smart and resourceful," Agent Parker said, "Mr. Eden probably picked up on that and took a particular interest in him. He was likely grooming him, training him in a specialized skill. That's probably how he ended up working with Eden's paper-maker."

It may have started that way, Peter thought, but at some point, Neal had taken over that role, or at least some aspect of it. Neal had written that letter. Not only the handwriting but the sentiment expressed was Neal's.

It was such a sad situation. Even as a kid, Neal had shown potential for greatness. If only he'd had a positive influence, someone to aim those skills in the right direction. His life could have been so different. But that wasn't a place he needed to go right now. He needed to stay focused.

"We did everything we could to find him," Detective Strand asserted. "The FBI had investigators looking. Their CI's were asking all their street contacts for any information. I had every cop on the beat show that photo within ten blocks of Eden's restaurant. We knew the kid would have been in there, but no one would admit to ever having seen him. We even offered a cash reward, no questions asked, but we got nothing." He shook his head. "We never even got a name."

Danny. His name had been Danny.

"They kept at it for months, but the kid never turned up," Agent Parker furthered. "Agents at the time figured Eden had killed both the forger and the boy. The case went cold. But if Mr. Caffrey's the boy, then the forger might be out there somewhere, too. We just want to see what Mr. Caffrey remembers about him, maybe get a name."

Agent Hughes looked skeptical. "If Caffrey had any useful information on a Federal investigation we'd have heard about it by now. He'd have offered it in exchange for a deal when Agent Burke arrested him. He's a born negotiator; I find it hard to believe he would have let that opportunity pass."

Peter, Jones and Agent Littleton had already had this discussion. It was out of character for Neal not to play an ace in the hole, but he had his reasons. He still had his reasons.

"Eden kept a tight rein on his people," Agent Parker replied. "The kids he used back then were conditioned, brainwashed almost, to be completely loyal to him. It was almost like some kind of cult. There's no way of knowing how long your CI was with him, under his control." He shrugged. "That kind of thing doesn't just go away."

In spite of his efforts to distance himself, the agent's words sent a chill through Peter.

"And yet you think he left a letter incriminating Eden with Detective Strand?" Agent Hughes shook his head. "That just doesn't track."

"I admit, it's was an anomaly," the agent conceded. "There must have been a very compelling reason for him to take such a risk. Maybe his loyalty to this unknown forger surpassed his loyalty to Eden; I don't know. Still, dropping a letter off and disappearing is one thing; coming forward and going on the record is another."

"Well, he's gone on the record now," Agent Hughes stated firmly. "He gave his statement to Agent Burke and Agent Littleton today."

"He was kidnapped, forced to commit a crime and found half dead in the trunk of Eden's car," Agent Parker reminded them. "He didn't have much of a choice."

"Be that as it may," Agent Hughes got to his feet, signaling the end of the meeting. "Between his, Carver's and McAllister's testimony, Terrence Eden will never see the light of day. He'll die in prison."

Taking the section chief's hint, both Agent Parker and Detective Strand stood as well. "I still want to talk to Mr. Caffrey," Agent Parker concluded, "see what he can tell me. Agent Littleton suggested I ask Agent Burke to come along." He looked at Peter. "You free to ride up with us in the morning?"

"I'm afraid Agent Burke has a meeting he can't afford to miss," Agent Hughes informed him. "It starts at nine."

"We could wait," Agent Parker offered. "How long do you expect it to last?"

"I have no idea," Agent Hughes said, his gaze falling to Peter. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Close the door and sit down, Peter," Agent Hughes said after the men had left them. "You look like you're about ready to drop."

Peter didn't doubt that. The few hours of less-than-restful sleep he'd grabbed in the hospital had done little to recharge him. He was running off caffeine and determination.

Agent Hughes retook his seat, looking tired himself. Peter knew the past three days had been hard on him, too. There had been a lot of fallout, first over Neal's suspected crime and Peter's disregard for protocol, and then later when the FBI took over the case and left the Marshal Service and the NYPD out of the loop. Tempers had to have run hot. Peter imagined the NYPD had been furious at being sent to cover a meeting that never occurred. Agent Littleton had taken a lot of the heat, but at the end of the day, he'd go back to Chicago. Agent Hughes was stuck in New York.

Peter did as he was bidden, closed the door and then took a seat in the chair the Detective had vacated. "It was a long weekend, sir."

"Yes, it was," Agent Hughes agreed. "But it was longer for some than for others. How's Caffrey?"

Peter had expected his meeting with the section chief to start with a slamming door. Then, without being asked to take a seat, he'd be verbally berated for making the White Collar Division look bad; for making _him_ look bad. Then Agent Hughes would give him a recap of everything that had been cited in the complaints against him. Only after his boss was finished letting off steam would he be asked to explain himself. He'd braced for that. He was ready.

But the meeting hadn't started that way at all. Instead, Agent Hughes had called him Peter, told him to sit down, and was now asking about Neal.

"He's weak, sir, and shaken up," Peter said honestly. "But the doctors say he's doing okay. May even release him tomorrow."

"Glad to hear it," Agent Hughes said. "Chief Ramsey called this afternoon. He's requested the court revoke the Felony Warrant issued for Caffrey. Should be taken care of soon."

"That's good," he said. "I wasn't sure how long it would take them to drop the charges." He eyed his boss with anticipation. "I thought they might be inclined to drag their feet a bit, given the circumstances."

"No," Agent Hughes said wearily. "Chief Ramsey withdrew his complaint against you late yesterday, and Agent Donaldson officially withdrew the complaint from the Marshal Service as well. He did it this morning."

Peter guessed that had occurred after Donaldson had visited the hospital. He had sensed a change of attitude in the man. The warrant against Neal was being dismissed, and the complaints against him had been withdrawn. These were good developments, but Agent Hughes did not appear happy.

"So," Peter ventured, "If the Marshal Service and the NYPD both withdrew their complaints, why am I still meeting with OPR?"

"Because they're the Office of Professional _Responsibility_ ," Agent Hughes answered somewhat irritably, "and they still want an explanation for why you blatantly disregarded procedure." He shook his head. "Actions have consequences, Peter, and not just for you. They say there is a pattern here, a pattern of Caffrey stepping out of bounds and you covering for him."

Peter started to protest, to say that was not what had happened. Neal hadn't stepped out of bounds; he'd been forcibly kidnapped and brutalized. But Agent Hughes held up his hand, stopping his words before they left his mouth.

"I know this wasn't Caffrey's fault," he stated emphatically, "and I sympathize with what he's been through but you have to admit, OPR has a point. There's been a number of incidents; more than once you've bent the rules to keep Caffrey out of trouble," he shook his head. "And I've let you. But now OPR is involved. They're taking a hard look to determine if continuing the arrangement with Caffrey is in the Bureau's best interest."

"The Bureau's best _interest?_ " Peter's voice rose as did his temper. "Are they serious? Have they looked at our closure rates? Highest across every department. _Because of Neal_."

That the Bureau would actually consider ending their arrangement with Neal over this was beyond unfair. Neal had done nothing wrong. He was the _victim_. Of course, he'd done nothing wrong when Kate had died either. He'd watched the love of his life die and then he'd been cuffed and taken back to prison.

"I told them Caffrey was a valuable part of our team," Agent Hughes was saying. "But they question your ability to keep him under control. They think you've gotten too close to be objective. They say your failure to report he was off anklet and missing is proof of that."

That was the charge he had expected; that his emotions had driven his decisions instead of sound reasoning. That was the charge he'd spent the last forty-five minutes preparing for. In order to disprove that claim, he had to stay calm. He could not let his temper get the best of him.

"They can think what they want," Peter lowered his voice, "but the facts prove my decisions were the right ones. Neal didn't run, and if I had called it in, if that BOLO had gone out, both he and Andrew Carver would be dead, and Terrence Eden would still be on the street." He leaned back in his chair. "I did my job, and I can justify every decision I made."

"Good," Agent Hughes said, reaching down and picking up the phone on his desk. "Because tomorrow you'll have to do just that." He hit a button and almost immediately spoke into the receiver. "Agent Jones," he said. "I need you in my office." He met Peter's eyes. "The three of us have a few things to go over before tomorrow."


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter Fifty**

Agent Littleton expressed his appreciation to his witness one last time before exiting the room. He left the door open and made his way down the hallway, fully committed to ignoring Caffrey and sending someone in to check on him. There were plenty of staff about, but uncertain as to which of them was responsible for Caffrey's care, he elected to simply go to the Nurse's Staton to make his request.

As he approached, he became aware of somewhat of a tense exchange taking place between the duty nurse and a florist delivery person. A rather large arrangement with a metallic, helium-filled balloon reading _Get Well Soon_ waving above it, sat on top of the multi-level counter.

"Most delivery people _prefer_ to leave arrangements here," the nurse seemed to be attempting to smooth over a misunderstanding, "and let a staff member take them to the room." Agent Littleton stepped up to the counter, waiting for them to finish their discussion. "I just assumed-"

" _Personalized Service_ ," the man interrupted, pointing impatiently at a patch on his dark blue hat. It read _Flowers McBloom. "_ It's a company tradition, and we take it seriously." He certainly sounded as if he did. "That means that I must _personally_ deliver the arrangements I am entrusted with."

"That is perfectly fine," the nurse assured him. "As I said, it was just an _offer;_ you are more than welcome to deliver them yourself."

"Thank you," the man replied, promptly sweeping the arrangement from the counter. He was a short, rather pasty complexed man wearing glasses. The arrangement nearly obscured his face as he swept past Agent Littleton and headed down the hallway.

"How can I help you?" The nurse asked, her previous problem solved.

"I just left Mr. Caffrey," he began, "and he's getting really uncomfortable. Can you send someone to check on him, please?"

"Certainly," she replied, punching something into the terminal. "Mr. Caffrey is due for medication, and the Med-tech is on her rounds now."

"So someone will check on him?" Agent Littleton pressed. "Soon?"

"Yes," she assured him. "Abby is on her way now with his meds, and the respiratory therapist is scheduled to see him in about twenty minutes."

It sounded as if relief was forthcoming. "Thank you."

He started to turn away but hesitated. Caffrey had been reequipped with his ankle bracelet, and hospital staff should have been made aware. Although he felt sure Burke had taken care of it, he thought it best to make sure. After all, Burke was seriously sleep deprived and it could have slipped his mind.

"Did Agent Burke inform you that Mr. Caffrey's is wearing an ankle bracelet?" He asked, keeping his voice low.

"Yes," she dropped her voice as well. "That information has been added to his file." She didn't seem concerned. He knew Caffrey didn't look like much of a threat, but looks could be deceiving, and most hospitals had strict policies regarding the security of suspects and prisoners. Agent Burke must have informed them that Caffrey, strictly speaking, was neither.

"Good," he said. "So there are no policy issues or...?"

"No," she shook her head. "Agent Burke explained Mr. Caffrey's arrangement with the FBI, and it was cleared with the hospital administrator. The only problem," she continued, "is if the doctor orders any additional x-ray or scans; the ankle device would have to be removed at that time."

"That's not a problem," Agent Littleton assured her. "Just call and we will make the necessary arrangements."

"But in the case of an emergency-" she began.

"Cut the damn thing off," Agent Littleton said without hesitation. "Then call and let us know."

She smiled. "That's exactly what Agent Burke said."

He wasn't surprised. "I'm sure you have Agent Burke's number," he said. "But I'd like to give you mine as well."

"And you are?"

"Agent Littleton," he supplied. He recited his number and she entered it into the system. "If there is a problem of any kind, don't hesitate to call."

"Yes, sir," she replied. She frowned with an afterthought. "Are we to call you or Agent Burke?"

"Just call both of us."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

There was no word for the relief Neal felt when Agent Littleton finally stepped out of the room. Peter had been right; he was a good guy. He hadn't pushed or pressured him. He'd let him go on his own, sometimes stumbling, pace. For a Federal agent, he'd been remarkably patient, but still, Neal was glad to see him and his video camera go. He closed his eyes and concentrated on taking easy, slow breaths hoping it would ease his pain and calm his mind. He needed a few minutes to himself; time to regroup.

But of course, it was not to be; someone entered the room. Neal opened his eyes, expecting to see hospital staff Agent Littleton had sent to check on him, but instead, he saw a large floral arrangement with a _Get Well Soon_ balloon. A familiar face peered around it.

"Moz," he breathed, quite surprised to see him. Mozzie felt about hospitals the same way he did about prisons; one should never enter of their own free will.

Neal knew the slight wince that came and went on Mozzie's face was a reaction to his own battered one. He hadn't seen his face since he'd left the warehouse; he hadn't wanted to. He didn't want to look into a mirror until he was sure it would be Neal Caffrey that peered back at him.

"Special delivery," Mozzie said, placing the arrangement on the table that most recently held Agent Littleton's video camera. He moved closer, his expression settling into a look of general concern. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. " _This_ ," he said, holding it out to Neal, "Not the flowers. Thought you might need it."

The memory of their last, brief conversation flashed through Neal's mind; he'd thought he'd never see Mozzie again. Or Peter. Or June. He felt the familiar tightening of his throat and sting in his eyes. He took the proffered phone hastily and dropped his eyes, but not before seeing a mix of shock and pity on Mozzie's face.

"Thanks, Moz," he mumbled as the small, black standard Mozzie-issue phone swam before his eye. He blinked back tears and swallowed several times. "No data I see."

His voice was hoarse and unsteady. He'd tried to pull himself together, to ease the awkwardness in the room but had failed miserably. Again at the brink of tears, he didn't dare raise his eyes. He wished he could disappear, or at the very least, pull the blanket up over his face and hide. His nose began to drip; he sniffed instinctively.

Damn, this was humiliating.

Peter had handed him a box of kleenex but Mozzie, when faced with tears, was more apt to make a quick excuse and a quicker exit. But he didn't. Instead, after a brief pause, he launched into one of his favorite conspiracy theories.

"I've told you," he began, "if you've getting data, you're _giving_ data. This whole virtual _world at your fingertips_ , it's just a trap, a tactic, a way for secret, government agencies to spy on its citizens, to learn everything about them and find ways to control them." Neal had heard this before, many times. Mozzie rambled on for a full two minutes before coming to his usual ending point. "The only way to stay free of their influence," he concluded, "is to downgrade technology-"

"and upgrade security," Neal finished for him, his voice now steady. His tears had subsided; Mozzie's rant had grounded him. It was the most normal thing that had happened in days. "I _know_."

"Speaking of security," Mozzie's tone changed, prompting Neal to look up. "I've noticed a strange lack of it. I knew the Suit wasn't here, but I figured he'd have somebody camped out on you. You know, considering your," he nodded towards Neal's legs, " _arrangement_."

Mozzie wasn't a fan of his arrangement with the Federal Government, but he couldn't argue its benefits. After all, there was no dropping by his prison cell and stealing a bottle of wine.

"No need," Neal replied, wiggling his left foot. "Marshal Service delivered a shiny new tracking device this morning. Peter strapped it on himself. I'm now considered _secured._ Anyway," he continued, "You just missed Agent Littleton. You probably passed him in the hall. He left just a couple minutes before you walked in."

Mozzie frowned. "I didn't see any Suits as I came in."

Neal knew Mozzie's descriptive term of _Suit_ encompassed more than wardrobe choices; it was about comportment as well. Peter, even wearing his Brighton Baron's sweatshirt, would still be a _suit_ to Mozzie.

"Young guy," Neal began, "light brown hair. He was wearing khaki pants, a green, collared shirt and-"

"brown jacket and carrying a black backpack," Mozzie completed with a nod. "Yeah, I _did_ see him. He was a _federal agent?_ "

"Yeah," Neal confirmed. "Agent Littleton, Chicago Cyber Crimes Division. He's the lead on his case. He was here to get my statement."

"Well that's somewhat alarming," Mozzie commented. "I walked right by him and didn't know he was a _Suit_. Didn't get a shiver of dread or anything."

"Yeah, he's not your stereotypical federal agent," Neal admitted, thinking back to his meeting with the man, "seems too low key. But Peter says he's smart so he must be good at his job."

"It's probably a ploy to lull people into a false sense of security. That makes him more dangerous if you ask me."

As if on cue, the door, which had been standing ajar, suddenly slammed open. "Get away from him," Agent Littleton thundered, his gaze, and gun were leveled on Mozzie.

Startled, Neal sat bolt upright in the bed, dropping the phone and Mozzie, with a yelp of panic, jumped back, hands immediately going above his head.

The agent's face was flushed; his eyes deadly serious. There was nothing low-key about him.

"Don't shoot!" Mozzie gulped, "I'm a _friend!_ Tell him, Neal!"

"It's true," Neal said breathlessly, the sudden movement causing the pain in his side to increase. "He's a friend; he's okay."

Agent Littleton exhaled a breath and lowered his weapon. "False alarm, fellows," he said to the hospital security guards at the door. He'd brought back up. "Everything's fine here."

"Not a problem, Agent," one of the men responded with a curious glance at Mozzie. He still had his hands extended. Neal could see curious staffers exchanging words in the hall. The incident had brought some excitement to an otherwise boring work day.

Agent Littleton again fixed his eyes on Mozzie. "Why the hell are you posing as a delivery man?" he asked, holstering his weapon.

"Who says I'm posing?" Mozzie replied irritably, lowering his hands.

"I saw that same arrangement in the window of the Gift Shop downstairs," the agent informed him. He nodded at the hat. "And there is no florist called _Flowers McBloom_ ; I checked."

"Mozzie, meet Agent Littleton, Cyber Crimes," Neal said, pressing a hand against his ribs. "I told you he was smart."

Mozzie snatched the hat from his head, clearly flustered that his ruse had been discovered. "And I told you he was _dangerous_ ," he said, glaring at the agent.

"So you're the infamous Mozzie," the agent replied, studying Mozzie with interest. "I hear I have you to thank for breaking my case."

Mozzie looked both horrified and pleased by the agent's words, but before he could decide how to respond to the statement, there was another interruption.

At least this time there were no weapons involved, but the nurse's tone suggested that she, too, was not to be taken lightly.

"I'm sorry," she said firmly, "But I'm going to have to ask you both to step out. Mr. Caffrey needs his medications checked, and the respiratory therapist is waiting to see him."

"I was just leaving," Mozzie replied hastily, more than ready to put distance between himself and Agent Littleton. "My work here is done." He moved towards the door but stopped part way. Turning back, he took care to block Agent Littleton's view. "Give me a call," he said aloud, then mouthed the word _speed dial_ and held up four fingers. "You know when you get home."

"I will," Neal replied. "Thanks for dropping by, Moz."

Mozzie swept past the Agent without making eye contact or saying a word.

"Well, he lives up to everything I heard about him," Agent Littleton remarked, watching Mozzie hurry down the hallway.

"And what was that?"

"That he's a strange man with strange ways."

"That he is," Neal replied. "But he's a good friend."

The agent, keenly aware of the nurse's growing impatience with his presence, made ready to exit.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Caffrey," he said instead of goodbye, "either here or back in the city so that you can sign that statement for me."

Neal nodded, and the agent moved towards the door but he, like Mozzie before him, turned back. "You have a lot of those, you know."

At Neal's look of alarm, the agent smiled. " _Friends_ , Neal," he clarified. "People who care about you." Neal didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. The last thing he needed was to tear up yet again. "After everything you've been through," Agent Littleton concluded, "I thought you might need reminding."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter felt more optimistic than he expected to about the following morning's meeting with OPR. He, Jones and Hughes had gone through the developments of the case. They had gone over the timeline, when each piece of information had come to light and had a valid explanation for each decision that had been made. The only gray area, truly, had been those first hours when Peter had elected to investigate on his own rather than enlighten others, including his own section chief and the Federal Marshals.

Peter described his thought process, just the way he'd rehearsed it. He knew Agent Hughes didn't appreciate having been left out and had his own suspicions of the real motivation behind his actions, but in the end, it behooved him to back his agent. And that was what he had chosen to do. Agent Hughes knew the real reason OPR had it in for White Collar was the mess with their Agent Fowler. They had been embarrassed by the incident and was looking to return the favor. However, Fowlers documented misconduct, and his suspected manipulation of Neal Caffrey gave credence to the claim that things were not always what they appeared to be. The fact that the tracking device _had_ been tampered with at the source and June Ellington's _had_ seen what appeared to be Federal Agents take Neal, justified Peter's handling unorthodox handling of the situation.

They had prepared as well as they could, but Agent Hughes warned him OPR would try to rattle him. They'd accuse and insinuate; question his judgment and his handling of Neal. He had to keep his cool, stick to the facts and not become reactionary or defensive. Agent Hughes also warned him that he'd have to listen to their assessment of Neal, whether it was fair or not, and not jump to his defense. That was the crux of their claim; that Peter had lost his objectivity where Neal was concerned. The way to combat that was not to engage; not to fall into that trap. Their opinion of Neal Caffrey didn't matter. In the end, Hughes claimed, they'd stand on the numbers. No one could argue that the White Collar Team, with Caffrey as their CI and Peter as his handler, was the most successful unit in the Bureau.

Peter knew the outcome of the inquiry heavily depended upon his ability to keep his temper under control. It would be difficult after the last few days; impossible if he didn't get some rest. Agent Hughes knew it too; he'd all but ordered Peter to go home, see his wife, have dinner and go to bed.

"Do what I say," Agent Hughes reiterated as they parted company. "Go home and get some sleep; I'll see you at nine."

"I will, sir," he replied wearily. It was almost five, and he was seriously dragging. "I just need to check in on Neal-"

"You told me he's doing fine," Hughes reminded him, "May even be out of there tomorrow. Trust me, Peter, you'll do him more good by getting some rest. You need to bring your A game tomorrow; where he spends the next two and a half years depends on it."

Agent Hughes was right; the real thing at stake tomorrow was the FBI's arrangement with Neal. If things went badly, the worse thing that would happen to Hughes was a reprimand from the higher ups; Peter would get a slap on the wrist and a black mark on his service record.

Neal, on the other hand, had a lot more to lose.


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter Fifty-one**

Peter left the office and headed home, calling Elizabeth to let her know he was on his way. He felt bad about leaving Neal on his own for the night, but Agent Hughes was right; he needed to be rested for the morning meeting with OPR. He had to bring his A game; Neal needed an advocate tomorrow more than he needed a babysitter tonight.

After talking briefly with his wife, mainly trying to convince her he didn't need a four-course meal when he arrived, he called Good Samaritan to check on Neal.

"Hullo?"

He'd asked to be connected to Neal's room, and though it was Neal's voice on the phone, he sounded strange.

"Hey, Neal," Peter began, "It's Peter. How are you doing?"

" _Peter,_ " came an oddly enthusiastic reply. "I'm doing _great._ How're you doing?"

 _Great_ wasn't the answer Peter had expected, and though it was nice to hear the upbeat tone in Neal's voice, he knew it wasn't natural.

"I'm good," he answered hesitantly. "I was just calling to check on you before I head home."

"I'm still right where you left me," Neal replied, his enthusiasm somewhat waning. "Can't you see that from your phone?"

It took Peter a moment to realize what he was talking about. Generally, the phase _checking on you_ referred to his pulling up Neal's tracking data to make sure he was where he was supposed to be. That's must be what Neal thought he meant.

"I'm not calling to see _where_ you are, Neal," Peter corrected him, "I'm calling to see _how_ you are. And you sound a little bit..." he searched for the right adjective, "off."

 _"Off?"_ That Neal was surprised by the observation was just a further indication that something was wrong.

"Yeah," Peter said, "you know, _off,_ addled, drunk maybe."

Neal's laugh traveled across the line. "How would _you_ know?" he asked. "You've never _seen_ me drunk."

It was true, he'd never seen Neal drunk but he'd certainly seen him impaired. In fact, Neal had been more or less impaired for the better part of the last twenty-four hours. However, he sounded different now. Before he'd been emotional, upset; now he seemed almost cheerful. It reminded Peter of how he'd sounded when he'd found him strapped to the bed at the Howser Clinic. At least he wasn't singing.

"Did they give you medicine, Neal," he asked, "for pain maybe?"

"Yeah, they gave me a shot a little while ago," Neal replied, "and I'm feeling _sooo_ -" he carried out the word, "much better than I was."

He certainly sounded better and a shot of morphine, or other high-powered pain medication, explained Neal's cheerful but less than articulate responses. However, Peter had been under the impression going forward his medication would be given orally.

"I thought they'd switched you to oral medication, Neal," he ventured, realizing that in Neal's present condition, he might not be the best source of reliable information. "Why did you get a shot instead?"

"Well, they tried the other first," Neal's voice dropped as if he was about to betray a confidence, "but it didn't go well."

"Didn't go well?"

"I couldn't keep it down." Peter could hear the dismay in Neal's voice. "It just came back up." Both antibiotics and opioids were notoriously hard on the stomach, and apparently, the nausea medicine and the orange jello hadn't done the trick. Neal had battled it all day, but in the end, his unsettled stomach had won out. "It was so embarrassing."

"That sort of thing happens, Neal," Peter assured him, well aware had it been the other way around he too would be mortified. "I'm sure they see it all the time. I'm just glad you're feeling better now."

"I'm just glad 'lizabeth brought me extra clothes," Neal mumbled. "Tell her I said thank you, okay?"

Peter guessed by Neal's growing inability to enunciate he would be asleep soon, and that was good; he needed rest. He'd expected Neal to ask about the meeting with Hughes, but he hadn't, and Peter was reluctant to introduce any topic, including his conversation with Agent Parker, that might disrupt his relaxed state.

"I'll tell her," Peter promised. "Try to get some rest, Neal, and I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

Neal mumbled a reply and the call was disconnected. Peter hoped the mood shift from distress to cheerful meant the detrimental effects of the Ketamine had finally worn off. Hopefully, Neal would have a restful night, devoid of nightmares and be more emotionally stabilized tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be a big day for both of them.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The first thing Peter had done when he got home, after hugging his wife and delivering Neal's words of gratitude, was shower and change into something comfortable. He'd returned downstairs to find Elizabeth had headed his council and fixed only a simple, though delicious, bite of dinner. Even so, he found himself talking more than he'd eaten.

The subject, of course, had been the events of the past three days. So much had happened and so fast that Elizabeth had only gotten bits and pieces of the story. She knew what they'd learned the first few hours about Eden, but there had been more to follow. He told her about the file Agent Littleton had brought; about the photo of Neal taken from the precinct's camera and about the letter that he'd left with the Chicago Detective. Her eyes had widened as he recounted what the letter revealed about the nature of Eden's other business.

"What an evil man," she'd whispered. "Why was he not arrested?" she asked. "How did he get _away with it_?"

Peter explained the legalities involved and why, although Neal had specifically named him, Eden had managed to wiggle out of trafficking charges. There had been a lack of a paper trail, corroboration or witnesses willing to come forward to directly tie him to the man discovered to be behind the operation, Francis Douchant. Douchant hadn't faired as well, he assured her. The ring had been shut down, several victims rescued and Douchant had been arrested, convicted, and sent to prison.

"But Eden knew what Neal had done, didn't he?" Elizabeth asked, already knowing the answer, "That's the reason he came after him; that's the score he wanted to settle."

"Neal knew Eden would kill him if he found him, so he disappeared," he told her. "He became Neal Caffrey and came here, to New York."

"So he's been running all his life, hasn't he?" Elizabeth remarked sadly. "First from his home, then from Chicago," she paused, meeting his eyes. "Then from you."

It did bother Peter that he'd chased a teenaged Neal so relentlessly, but he also knew that, regardless of the reason why, the path the young man had been on did not lead to a good destination. Eventually, Neal would have wound up in jail or dead. At least, this way, it had been the former, and the jail had been in the US and not some prison in Prague, or worse, yet, someone's private dungeon in Italy or France. Neal had a life now even if it was hemmed in by a two-mile radius. He did good work and had people in his life who genuinely cared for him. It was Peter's hope that, by the time his sentence was finished, he'd realize that and choose to make it his home. Not because he had too, but because he wanted to; because he knew it was where he belonged.

"Yes, he has," Peter admitted, "but he doesn't have to run anymore. He has a life here, a _home,_ " he stated emphatically "He just has to learn how to believe that."

Peter had told Neal that before; on the tarmac before the plane Neal planned to leave on had exploded, taking Kate with it. Neal had wanted to believe him. Peter had seen it in his eyes. He wanted to believe he mattered, that he belonged somewhere, but he was afraid. And given what Peter had learned about Neal's past, he better understood why.

After Neal had fled Chicago, he'd been a one man operation. He hadn't joined anyone; no gangs, crews or organizations. He hadn't tried to belong, to fit in. He'd kept to himself and stayed on his own. The only people he'd made any connections to had been Kate, Mozzie, and oddly enough, the FBI agent who'd been chasing him.

Peter and Elizabeth moved from the dining area to the sofa, leaving their dishes untouched on the table, and Peter moved on to the more recent developments; what had happened during the past twenty-four hours when he'd been at Neal's side. Elizabeth knew Neal had been out of it, particularly in the beginning when he'd been experiencing the disassociative effects of the drug he'd been given. Peter had been at a loss; when Neal had been drugged at the Howser Clinic, he'd been loopy but surprisingly cheerful. This time, however, had been much different. He hadn't been cheerful; he'd been afraid, traumatized and heartbroken. Faced with such emotions, Peter had called Elizabeth for both direction and encouragement. But things had happened that he hadn't shared, either because he'd chosen not to at the time or simply because he hadn't had the opportunity. Now that he was home, he finally opened up about it all.

He'd learned more about Neal's past in the last three days than he had in eight years and he knew more about his time with Terrence Eden than could be found in any records or files. Some facts he'd learned from official sources; files and reports from the Chicago Police Department, Cyber Crimes, and Violent Crimes. He'd told Elizabeth about those. Now he related the other, less factual yet equally illuminating, information he'd gathered from Neal himself. Neal's drug-induced ramblings gave Peter an idea of how he had experienced his life in Chicago; as a life of fear and uncertainty. During his more lucid, yet still unguarded, moments Neal had revealed even more heart-wrenching details. The photo from the Chicago precinct, something Elizabeth hadn't seen, as well as Neal's current condition, which she had, confirmed Eden's reputation as a violent and vindictive man. None of these personal observations was something Peter could share with anyone except Elizabeth. He certainly couldn't tell Agent Hughes or include it in any report. It would betray Neal's trust in the cruelest way; revealing aspects of his past that even Neal himself refused to acknowledge.

He told her he now better understood the choices Neal had made and how he'd come to be the man he now was. He also admitted many of his assumptions about Neal had been wrong and many of hers had been right. He'd been reluctant to accept her theory that Neal was searching for a father figure but in light of what he'd learned, he now knew it was true. It also brought up his own guilt about the way he too, often used Neal's eagerness to please for his own advantage. He could justify that it was for the greater good, the Bureau, and a way for Neal to make amends for his past transgressions, but at the end of the day, Neal had been good for his career. That was an upsetting and emotional topic and although it seemed counterproductive to relaxing, talking through it was the only way Peter could ever hope to unwind enough to sleep. Elizabeth understood and listened, interrupting him only occasionally to either correct or encourage him.

There were things that, as an agent, he was bound by duty to share but had not done so. He knew before Neal had been Neal, he had been Danny. He also was fairly certain Danny had been Eden's forger, not simply a boy who'd worked for him. Yet he'd stood in Agent Hughes office and listened to Agent Parker's erroneous assumptions and said nothing.

On the other hand, there were things he shouldn't share that he had. He'd told Neal about the old case; had warned him that agents from Violent Crimes would be coming to talk to him. He knew that was strictly forbidden yet he had done it anyway. Of course, that was a point in which Elizabeth reminded him that had been the right thing to do; it would have been cruel to allow Neal to be blindsided in that way.

He also told her about Neal's morning breakdown and his promise that, if Neal chose not to cooperate, he'd find a way to get him out of it. That hadn't only been an emotionally driven and unprofessional response; it had also been a foolhardy one. There was precedence for crime victims not being required to assist the prosecution but only when it was determined that doing so would be detrimental to their mental health. That had been his only plan of recourse; to get Neal to speak with someone qualified to make that determination and just that seemed like a longshot.

But for a change, things seemed to have taken a positive turn. Neal had made his proclamation at a time of great emotional stress, and yet he'd still finished the statement for Agent Littleton. The effects of the Ketamine were wearing off, and as Neal became less emotional and more pragmatic, he'd realize cooperation or at least the pretense of it, would serve him better than outright refusal. His situation was further improved by the fact that Violent Crimes did not plan to pursue the trafficking case against Eden. They realized, and rightly so that even if they found the letter writer, getting corroboration would be difficult and after a decade, his testimony would be easily challenged. Cyber Crimes had a solid case, and it was in everyone's best interest to let them prosecute Eden to the full extent of the law. With the charges levied against him the man would be sent away for half a century.

"If they're not going to pursue the trafficking case anyway," Elizabeth began, "why do they even need to talk to Neal?"

Peter explained what Agent Parker had said and told her since the purpose was to tie up loose ends and not build a case, the discussion with Neal wouldn't be as intense as they'd previously feared. There would be no need for vetting or digging into his backstory. There would be no testimony or cross examinations to prepare for. Agent Parker wanted to talk to Neal, but it would just be a conversation; not an inquisition.

Of course, Neal didn't know that yet, and he'd need to before Agent Parker arrived at the hospital to speak with him. Hopefully, being aware of the limited purpose of the visit would quell Neal's fears and make him more willing to answer the agent's questions. How much he'd share, Peter was uncertain, but since the case wasn't bound for trial, it didn't matter. Again, as an agent, Peter shouldn't be giving Neal any information on the investigation, but again, that's what he planned to do.

"That explains what Agent Parker wants with Neal," Elizabeth said when he'd finished. "But what about the detective? What is he here for?"

" _Retired_ detective," he clarified. "He's not here in any official capacity," Peter told her, recalling what the man had said in Hughes's office. "Said he was just tagging along." At her questioning look, he added. "He's the detective Neal left the letter with."

"Is he's here to make a positive identification?" It was a logical assumption. One Peter had made himself.

"Maybe," he conceded, "but I think it's more than that." He shrugged. "Everyone has those cases, El," he explained wearily, "those that stick with you. I think this one was his. A kid shows up in his precinct, beat up, leaves that bombshell of a letter on his desk and then disappears without a trace?" he shook his head. "It's bothered him, all these years, not knowing what happened to him."

"So he's come see him," Elizabeth surmised, understanding softening her eyes. "Just to put his mind at ease."

"That was my impression. I think he, like everyone else, expected a _body_ to eventually turn up; not an actual living, breathing person."

"They thought he was dead."

"It seemed the most likely explanation for his vanishing the way he did," Peter told her. "Eden has a reputation; they thought he'd killed him."

"And they didn't know who he was or where he came from? Even back _then?_ "

Elizabeth knew the effort he'd put into trying to find background on Neal Caffrey. Part of any investigation, any search for a suspect, included research into their past. It was important to know where they'd come from, who their family was, where they'd felt most secure in their lives. Most criminals, at some point, would want to reconnect with the familiar, to something that made them feel safe. Sometimes it was a call to their mother or favorite aunt; others it was an ill-advised return to a favorite old-time haunt. Many suspects had been nabbed simply because an agent had done their homework and had surveillance in the right place.

Of course, his search for information on Neal's past yielded no results. As far as he could tell, Neal had no past. But he had found something to use to trap his prey; Kate Moreau.

"No," Peter replied. "They couldn't find anyone who'd identify him. They ran his description through the Missing Children's Database and checked all missing person reports but got nothing. Whoever he was," he added, recalling Agent Littleton's words, "No one was looking for him."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," she remarked quietly. "I know it's been a hard road, but at least he's _here_ now. He's not alone. Like you said," she added. "he has a life, a _home. He has us."_

Peter knew all that was true, but still, Neal had to learn how to believe it.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

Peter's phone rang at 7:15; he'd just finished dressing and came downstairs. Although he didn't have to be at the office until nine, Elizabeth had an early morning. He'd just sat down to a bowl of cereal and cup of coffee when the call came in. So early, he doubted it could be good news and when caller ID said GSMC he immediately feared something had happened to Neal.

"Burke."

"Hey, Peter," came Neal's voice, "I know its kind of early but I wasn't sure what time your meeting with OPR was, and I wanted to catch you before you went."

"No problem," Peter replied, relieved that it wasn't hospital staff calling to alert him that Neal had taken a bad turn. "Just getting ready to have breakfast with El. You sound better," he added. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," Neal told him. "I kept down my dinner last night and my medication this morning, so I hope they'll let me out this afternoon." There was a brief pause. "I was just wondering how things went with Agent Hughes."

It was the question he'd expected last night, and now that Neal was in his right mind, he'd asked it.

"They went well," Peter assured him. "I explained the reasons for my actions and he's onboard."

"That's good," Neal responded. "So how do you think things will go today, at the inquiry?"

"I think they'll go okay but its OPR," he hedged, "and you know how they can be."

"Yeah," Neal said. "They aren't my biggest fans."

"Mine neither," Peter reminded him. "Hughes warned me they'll try to make it personal. He said to keep my cool and let our record speak for itself. They may not like us, but they can't argue we're the best team in the Bureau right now."

"That's kind of nice."

"What?"

"Hearing you say we're a team."

Peter was a bit surprised by the comment. It wasn't something Neal would say, but again, Neal had said a lot he usually wouldn't say lately.

"Of course we're a team," he said after a moment's pause. "You, me, Jones and Diana. We do good work; _you_ do good work. I've told you that before."

"I know," Neal admitted, "it's just-" He stopped whatever he'd been about to say. "Look, as far as talking to that agent from Chicago, not Littleton but the other one-"

"Listen, Neal," Peter interrupted, ready to give him the good news. "I don't think-"

"I want to do it, Peter," Neal interjected. "I know I've been, well," he paused, "a little _erratic_ but that was just the drugs talking. I feel better now; I'm thinking clearer. I know it's better for both of us for me to cooperate, you know, to be as helpful as I can."

 _To be as helpful as I can_. Neal was feeling better; Peter could hear the prelude to prevaricate in his tone.

"I met the agent from Violent Crimes," Peter apprised. "His name is Parker. He told me they aren't pursuing charges in the case; he's here just to tie up some loose ends."

"And by loose ends...?"

"He wants to fill in some missing information," he supplied. "He'll probably ask what you remember about Eden's operation back then, maybe who you remember working with." He paused. "I know he's going to ask about the person who wrote the letter," Peter told him. "He's particularly interested in that."

There was a pause as Neal processed the new information he'd been given. Peter guessed Neal had picked up on an important fact; the agent didn't know for certain he'd written the letter.

"I see. So this isn't a statement, per se, like I gave Agent Littleton?"

"No," Peter said, "it's just a conversation. Whatever you tell him just goes in the file. There will be no charges levied; no trial to prepare for. No _testimony._ Should be a one and done."

Again, there was a pause as Neal processed what he'd heard. "That better than what I expected."

"Yeah, me too," Peter admitted. "There's a retired detective with him, too, Neal" he informed. "Detective Strand; he's the man you left the letter with. Do you remember him?"

"Vaguely," Neal replied. "Why is he here?" Peter could hear underlying unease in his voice. "What does he want?"

"Just to see you as far as I can tell," he answered.

"To identify me?"

"I don't think so," Peter said, "that photo pretty much does that." He told him what he'd told Elizabeth; that everyone had that case that stuck with them. "I think that seeing you will finally put it to rest for him."

Speaking over the phone and not in person, it was impossible for Peter to determine how Neal felt about Detective Strand's presence or his reason for coming. Whether it stressed or consoled, Peter didn't know and Neal gave no indication either way.

"What time are they coming?"

"Agent Parker wants to come this morning," Peter told him, "but my meeting with OPR is at nine. I'm hoping he'll wait until I'm done so I can come with him. So maybe around lunch?"

"There's no need to put him off," Neal replied easily. "Like I said before, the sooner this is over, the better. You concentrate on the OPR meeting, Peter, I can handle this on my own."

Even though Neal had said much the same thing the day before, this felt different. Yesterday, he'd been shaken but had rallied to help Peter. Today, however, he seemed much more steady, and his motivation had shifted. Not only could he handle the meeting with Agent Parker on his own, but he _preferred_ it that way; he didn't want Peter to be there.

Peter could think of only a couple reasons that would be so. One, Neal was going to disclose information he didn't want Peter to know, or two, he wasn't planning to be straight with Agent Parker. Since Neal knew Peter would have access to any FBI file and the information contained therein, the former seemed unlikely. The latter, however, was much more the probable scenario.

Neal was going to lie, or if not lie, not tell the whole truth. And he knew if Peter were there, he'd know it.

Peter knew Agent Parker wanted to know about the person who had written the letter, but other than that, he wasn't sure what questions the agent would have for Neal. He guessed a lot would depend upon how Neal answered that one question, but either way, there was likely to be other things Agent Parker would want to know. What work had Neal done for Eden? Who did he remember working with? There might even be questions about specific crimes from that time period. There could, potentially, be questions about how he'd come to work for Eden in the first place.

What aspects Neal planned to lie about, Peter wasn't sure, and it was possible, now that he'd learned the real purpose of the visit, he would decide deception was unnecessary.

"What are you going to tell Agent Parker if he asks some hard questions?"

Instead of answering the question, Neal posed one of his own.

"What are you going to tell OPR when they do the same?"

It was Peter's turn to pause. "The truth, more or less," he replied.

"Same here."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Even though Peter didn't have to be at the office until nine after Elizabeth left for work he couldn't stand just waiting around and decided to drive on in. He arrived at the White Collar Office just before 8:30.

He found Diana at her desk, but there was no sign of Clinton Jones.

"Heasley and Donavan," Diana explained with a glance toward the upper offices. "OPR arrived about fifteen minutes ago and called Jones in. Said they had some questions about his report."

Peter had read Jones report. It was simple and straightforward. He hadn't seen anything that would need clarification, but he'd dealt with Agent Donavan before. In fact, they'd almost came to blows. He'd been the one who insisted Neal stay in lockup after Kate was killed; until the supposed Mentor operation could be investigated. Peter had been furious and had let Agent Donavan, and everyone else within proximity, know it. Of course, if it was OPR's plan to make him lose his temper, Donavan was the man to send for the job.

"Donavan's an ass," Peter said under his breath.

"Yes, he is," she confirmed, "but don't let him get under your skin. Just stick to the facts and keep your cool."

"Contrary to popular belief," Peter said somewhat irritatedly, "I _can_ control myself." At Diana's skeptical look, he sighed. "I know I got a bit heated with Donavan before, but Hughes already warned me that's what they're counting on. So I'm ready for that." He took a deep breath. "Really I am."

Diana didn't seem entirely convinced, but Peter left her and her doubts and made his way up the stairs to his office. He had to pass the conference room, and he felt his blood pressure rise at the sight of Agent Donavan through the glass. Hughes was in there as well, and though Jones had his back to Peter so he couldn't see his expression, he could see Hughes, and he looked less than pleased. Peter moved past them and stepped into his office.

His desk was clean; he'd cleared it before he'd left on Friday. He'd been looking forward to a relaxing weekend, some time to unwind from the hectic workload he'd been under. Now he wasn't sure when he'd get to relax and unwind. Certainly no time soon. He sat down at his desk, and even though he'd slept ten hours without as much as turning over, he still felt exhausted. He dreaded the nine o'clock with Donavan and his cohort but, as Neal had said, the sooner it was over with the better.

Neal had sounded more like himself on the phone. Not just his voice, it was more than that. It was something in his tone, his attitude. He was _ready_ to see Agent Parker and Detective Strand, eager almost. That told Peter he had a plan, a strategy for handling them. A day ago, it had been a different story. Neal hadn't had the energy or mental tenacity to _handle_ Agent Littleton. He'd simply gotten through the statement as best he could. The doctor had said that he'd feel more and more like himself as the day passed and she had been correct. Today Neal was feeling better, thinking better and sounded much more like the Neal Caffrey he'd come to know.

As if on cue, his desk phone rang; it was Agent Parker.

"What time do you expect your meeting to be over," he asked after the customary exchange of greetings. "We can wait an hour or so," he told him. "That should give us time to talk to Caffrey and get back in time to catch our flight."

"Why don't you just head on up?" Peter suggested. "I talked to Neal this morning. He sounds good. There's no reason to wait on me. Anyway," he added truthfully, "I'm not sure how long this will take."

There was also the fact that, if Neal was back to being Neal, Peter needed to get back to being Peter. That meant calling him out when he was less than truthful or was trying to manipulate a situation. Neal expected that from him; that was why he'd not wanted Peter tagging alone. That understanding between them kept Neal, for the most part, honest and Peter needed for that to continue. Regardless of the sympathy he felt for Neal's plight, he still needed to keep him in check. For this reason, it was best for both of them that he not be present when Agent Parker visited Neal.

There was a pause while Agent Parker thought it over. "Well," he said. "If you're sure, we will go on up."

"I'm sure," Peter replied, "but can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Can you send me a copy of your notes when you get back to Chicago? I'd like to know what he has to say."

"Absolutely," Agent Parker replied. "I imagine this is good for you. It definitely adds a page or two to your Caffrey file."

"Yes it does," Peter admitted.

"Well," the agent continued, "as his handler, the more you know about him, the better. Especially things like this, you know, from his formative years. Should give you an advantage when dealing with him."

His words, although true, gave Peter an uneasy feeling. He'd learned a lot about Neal, and it wasn't like he could forget it. It would, whether intentionally or not, be a factor in the way he handled him going forward.

"It certainly gives me a new perspective," Peter said.

"I guess so," Agent Parker replied. "I'll be back at the New York office before we fly out. If you're still there when I get there, I'll give you a recap and make you a copy of my notes."

"I'd appreciate that."

He'd just hung up the phone when Agent Hughes stuck his head in the door. "You ready?"

It wasn't quite nine, but he guessed that Agent Hughes, like himself, was eager to get the inquiry over with and to get OPR out of his conference room. Peter stood.

"Absolutely."

"Remember," Agent Hughes cautioned as Peter moved across the room. "Don't let them push your buttons. No matter what they say, keep it professional. At the end, we stand on our record. The last thing we need to do is start another war with OPR. Don't let them make you-"

"Lose my temper," Peter finished for him. The warning was getting old fast. "I _know_."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"As you are aware, Agent Burke," Agent Heasley began, passing several documents to Peter, "our office became involved when two separate complaints were filed with the Bureau regarding your handling of the Caffrey situation."

Peter glanced at the pages the agent had presented; copies of said complaints from Captain Ramsey and Agent Donaldson.

"I understand that both of these have since been rescinded," Peter said pushing them back across the table toward the agent. "So I'm not clear on why you're here."

"We're _here_ ," Agent Donavan's tone was testy, "because even though they were withdrawn, both parties lodged the same exact complaint against you Agent Burke. For that reason, we felt it merited a closer look."

"Of course you did," Peter said under his breath. He saw the quick look of disapproval from Hughes.

"Agent Burke will be happy to walk you through the events of last Saturday," Agent Hughes said, his look daring Peter to differ, "and answer any questions you have about the way he chose to handle things."

"Okay, Agent Burke," Agent Donavan said. "Why don't you start with why, when you realized Caffrey's ankle monitor was not giving correct readings, you didn't immediately alert the Marshal Service that there was a problem?"

That was the starting point, and Peter had already rehearsed what would follow. He went through it exactly as he had planned, and the way he'd done with Agent Hughes the day before. Agent Heasley occasionally asked a question, or for clarification, but Agent Donavan remained silent. When he'd come to the end of his discourse, Agent Hughes spoke.

"As you can see," he said. "Agent Burke used his knowledge of the situation, as well as his knowledge of Caffrey, to navigate a complicated situation. I believe the outcome of this case proved that he was correct in both his assumptions and his actions. In fact," he continued, "had the NYPD not been so territorial and excluded him from the scene, there would have been a break in the case hours sooner."

"Sign language?" Agent Heasley shook his head. "And no one else who viewed the footage picked up on that?"

"They'd already reached their conclusions," Peter said. "They weren't looking for anything other than what fit what they already thought."

"That Caffrey is a criminal?" Agent Donavan scoffed. "I wonder why they'd think such a thing?"

"That attitude is the reason the NYPD failed to get Neal's message," Peter said, unable to keep the irritation from his voice, "He put himself at risk to get information out and they _missed_ it."

"Yes they did," Agent Heasley agreed, "and that mistake is probably the reason they withdrew their complaint. Regardless, Agent Burke, the complaints from both the NYPD and the Marshal Service were valid ones." He glanced at his partner. "And there have been other instances where your judgment concerning Caffrey has been questioned."

"By who?" Peter challenged.

"Agent Ruiz, for one," Agent Heasley said, flipping through some documents in front of him. "He said you give Caffrey too much leeway; let him by with things you should run him in on. Allow him to break the rules."

"He thinks Caffrey should be serving his sentence in prison where he belongs," Donavan chimed in. "Not running around Manhattan in a fancy suit."

Agent Ruiz, from the Organized Crime Division, had never been a fan of White Collar and especially not of Neal Caffrey. It was true that Peter occasionally let Neal break the rules; sometimes his CI could do things that, technically, a Federal Agent wasn't allowed to do. Still, Ruiz wasn't exactly one to strictly adhere to policy either.

"Ruiz is one to talk," Peter muttered, "He's got more skeletons in his closet than Neal does."

"At least he's not a convicted felon," Donavan retorted. Agent Heasley sent his partner a look before continuing his discourse.

"Agent Rice made similar observations," he related. "Said you treat Caffrey more like a friend than a CI and don't enforce appropriate boundaries. She said it led to problems when she had to work with him."

" _Agent Rice?"_ Peter repeated incredulously, feeling his face flush at the sheer audacity. "You've got to be kidding me. The only problem she had was her own super ego. She blew that operation and nearly got Neal killed in the process. She's lucky she's still employed after the stunt she pulled."

"Agent Burke is right on that one," Agent Hughes said. "She faced a disciplinary hearing and was reprimanded for her handling of the Wilkes case, severely from what I was told. Sounds like a case of sour grapes to me."

"There are also statements from various NYPD personnel, including an officer Dixon," Agent Heasley refused to be deterred, "alleging Caffrey was involved in illegal activities. They say he was caught red-handed and that Agent Burke flashed his badge and told them to let him walk."

This wasn't someone saying he wasn't tough enough on Neal; this was an accusation of _actual_ criminal behavior. Although he'd been warned they'd attack his character, Peter still felt his temper rise.

Agent Hughes, anticipating his reaction, held up a hand to signal that he'd handle the response.

"I am aware of each and every time something like that has occurred," he stated sternly. "It was always during an operation and Caffrey was simply playing a part in order to close the deal. That was explained to the NYPD personnel at the time and it's all in the files." His eyes drilled the agent. "I'd be happy to provide documentation if you wish."

"It still looks suspect," Agent Donavan said dismissively, "and adds to the perception that Agent Burke is willing to bend the rules and even break laws for Caffrey's benefit."

"I'm sure you're not suggesting Agent Burke has done anything illegal," Agent Hughes tone held a clear warning. "I suggest you tread carefully, Agent Donavan. I assure you Agent Burke has and will continue to work within the framework allowed by myself as his superior, as well as that outlined by the bureau."

"I think his actions this past weekend call that into question, Agent Hughes," Heasley replied. "He clearly did not follow bureau protocol."

"The bureau allows agents some latitude in intense and rapidly developing situations," Agent Hughes stated. "This was certainly that. Agent Burke has explained his actions, and the outcome supports that his decisions were sound."

"Caffrey's a criminal and loose cannon," Donavan inserted, his voice rising in frustration that Agent Hughes' support for his agent seemed unwavering. He looked at Peter. "Even your own reports show how often he goes off script and doesn't follow orders."

"Neal can be impulsive," Peter admitted, thinking about how many times Neal's impulsive behavior _hadn't_ made it into his reports, "and I might not always condone his course of action but his instincts in the field are excellent." His brow furrowed. "I'm just curious," he began, "when you were reading reports and scouring through them for anything you could use against him, did you happen to take note of the times his improvising has _saved_ an operation? He's put his life on the line time and time..."

"Agents put their lives on the line every day, Agent Burke," Donavon retorted with disdain. "That doesn't give-"

 _"Agents,_ " Peter interrupted pointedly. "Agent's who've been trained for field work, are armed and most of the time wearing protective gear. Neal's not an agent, he's a CI."

"I can see that the two of you are just going to discount each and every statement, every complaint, that's we've uncovered," Heasley said, trying to steer away from Donavon's blunder and get back to the task at hand. "But the sheer number of them tells me there is a _problem_ here." He glared at Peter who returned the gesture. "It's my opinion that Caffrey is more of a liability than an asset. Sooner or later, this work release agreement is going to come back and bite the bureau in the ass."

Agent Hughes patience was wearing thin.

"Well, it's my ass and not yours," Agent Hughes snapped. "And I don't base my staffing decisions on opinions, Agent Heasley, I base them on results. You have no evidence that Caffrey has done anything illegal since he's been on his work release. Whether you," he shifted his gaze to Donavon, "or Agent Donavan here, like Agent Burke's methods of dealing with Caffrey or not, the fact is that he gets results. Our record speaks for itself."

"And so does Caffrey's," Agent Donavan insisted. "He's a career criminal and it's just a matter of time until he goes back to what he knows; _crime._ Do you really want that to happen on your watch?" he pressed, "Do you _want_ a criminal working for you?"

"We both know good and well that the Bureau has CI's on the payroll _right now_ that are involved in criminal activities," Hughes stated flatly. "Loansharking, bookmaking, even _prostitution._ Their handlers give them a free pass because the information they provide is valuable." He got to his feet. "If you have a problem with criminal informants, go investigate some of them. Until then, leave my agent, and his CI, alone."

Agent Donovan opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't get a chance.

"We're done here, Agent Burke," Hughes said curtly, cutting off any protest. Peter, realizing the meeting had come to an abrupt end, got to his feet. "As for you two," the section chief added, nodding to the file they'd brought, "get your assumptions and opinions the hell out of my conference room."

Peter tried to keep a look of satisfaction from his face but knew he failed miserably. He followed Agent Hughes from the room, leaving the two agent's fuming at their unceremonial dismissal.

"Well," Peter muttered as soon as he and Hughes were out of earshot. "I'm sure glad I didn't lose my temper in there. After all," he couldn't help but grin, "The last thing we need to do is start a war with OPR."


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

"Take your time," the CNA instructed. "Make sure you're steady before you try to stand."

Neal was sitting, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, waiting for the lightheadedness he was feeling to pass. She said it was normal, to be expected, but it wasn't normal for him. That's what he longed for more than anything, things to go back to normal, to how they'd been before Eden appeared. He wanted back in his apartment, back to work, back to feeling in control of himself. Back to a time when Peter saw him as a brilliant but impulsive man who'd chosen a life of crime for the sheer thrill of it. Sometimes Peter's disdain for his life choices was hard to take, but he hoped over time he'd come to see him differently. As someone worthy of his respect and maybe even his friendship. What he didn't want, or need, was his pity.

He didn't remember anything from the time he'd been closed up in the trunk of Eden's car until he'd awakened at the hospital _sometime_ Sunday evening. Even then, things were spotty. He wasn't sure everything he remembered was even real. The doctor had explained the effects of the drug he'd been given, and there were certain memories he knew had been hallucinations. Peter hadn't arrested him and handed him over to Eden, and he hadn't seen Andrew's bloody body on the floor of Eden's office. Although those memories were as clear to him as his memory of the chest tube being removed, he knew them to be false.

Other memories were less easy to classify. Several of them he wished were dreams but feared were not. He distinctly remembered sobbing into Peter's chest, holding tightly to his shirt like a frightened child. He'd so desperately needed to feel safe, secure and protected he'd been unable to control his emotions. His face burned at just the memory. Even after he'd grown more lucid, more aware of what was happening, he'd still struggled, finding himself so overwhelmed at times he'd dissolved into tears. Once, while a damned video recorder was running. Peter had done his best to give comfort while preserving his dignity, but still, Neal had seen pity in his eyes.

Neal wanted things to go back to how they'd been but knew they never could. Even if the doctor was right, and his lack of control had been drug induced, he'd still betrayed himself, revealing weaknesses Peter would never forget. Nothing could ever be the same again.

He's spent so many years trying to forget, trying to bury that part of his life so deeply that no one would ever know of it; ever speak of it. Now it had all came back again. He could see no way to escape the trap Eden had placed him in. To cooperate with the feds on the trafficking case would mean everything would be brought out, gone over again and again. They wouldn't just ask about Eden's involvement in that dirty and evil business or how Neal had become aware of it. They'd want to know more. They'd ask about others in the organization; what exact work he, and they, had done. They'd probably be aware of how Eden recruited his workers, of the methods he used to control them, and they'd ask how he had been brought in. How old had he been, they'd want to know, and where was his family? That wasn't something Neal was willing to discuss. His first instinct was to refuse to talk to them at all, but if he did that, if he refused to cooperate, it would make things more difficult with OPR. It could result in the end of his work release agreement; he'd go back to prison. Either way, whether he cooperated or not, his life was going to change and not for the better.

Those thoughts had consumed him after Mozzie left. He'd been assured the ketamine had finally worn off; his emotions should have stabilized, yet he still felt waves of hopelessness. He felt that that, more than the pain medication he'd taken, had led to the bout of nausea that had left him once more humiliated and in pain.

But the shot of morphine had wiped the pain away, both the physical and the mental. As much as he hated feeling drugged, at least it had brought relief. Maybe that's what he'd needed to reset his thinking because he'd slept through the night without bad dreams and when he'd awakened in the morning, the feelings of panic and hopelessness did not immediately descend upon him. Instead, he felt calm. At first, he'd been skeptical, after all, his feelings had been less than dependable, but it remained, and with it came a new sense of clarity.

He could do this. It was bad, and there were a lot of things now known he'd prefer not to be, but he still could do damage control. It didn't have to ruin everything; he wouldn't let it. He wouldn't give Eden the satisfaction. Now that he was feeling more like himself, he could find a way to manage the situation. He just needed to think things through.

Peter could handle OPR. They'd been called because the NYPD and the Marshal Service thought he'd tampered with his anklet and committed a robbery. But now they knew the truth, the real story. He had committed the robbery but under duress. The message he'd sent to Peter beforehand was there for everyone, now that they knew what to look for, to see. It exonerated him from wrongdoing. It seemed to reason since he'd committed no crime, Peter could not be accused of condoning one nor of in any way being complicit.

As far as disregarding protocol, he knew well enough the bureau was more than willing to overlook such things when it benefited them. Terrence Eden had been a target for the Bureau for over a decade and now they had him. Agent Littleton had assured him the man would no longer plague Chicago nor any other city. He'd die in prison. Had Peter followed protocol, not only would it have resulted in Andrew Carver's death, but Eden would have withdrawn and regrouped. He'd not be in federal custody, awaiting trial. They might not like it, but Peter's decisions had netted the bureau a large fish and that haul would cover a multitude of sins.

As far as his cooperation, he'd given his statement to Agent Littleton and would testify if needed, but there was no reason to go that far on the other. Eden was already going to prison. There was no use in dredging up any more of the past than had already been exhumed. But refusing to cooperate would be a mistake, and although Peter's career wouldn't suffer for it, his role as his CI very well could. He needed to be willing to fully cooperate with the bureau in all matters. Or at least, he needed to appear to be.

He'd read the file Peter had left on his bedside table. Thankfully, other than the photo, there had been very little in there about him, just what the Detective had written in his original report. No one had suspected he'd written the letter, that he was, in fact, Terrence Eden's forger. They thought he was just an errand boy; the only reason they'd looked for him was to get him to identify the letter writer.

The FBI had put together a profile in hopes it would help them find the forger. Neal had mixed feelings reading it. On the one hand, he'd enjoyed the evaluation of his work. Phrases like _exceptional quality_ and _meticulously produced down to the smallest detail_ had made him smile. It was always good to have one's work appreciated even if it was by a federal agency. He'd less enjoyed reading the psychological part of the profile. Wrong in so many of their suppositions, the profilers had been uncannily on the mark in some of their observations.

The description of the forger was very helpful. Intelligent, well-educated. Worked in a field with access to legal documents. Possible financial difficulties had led to his crimes, but otherwise probably a law abiding citizen. His estimated age? Between forty and fifty. The description generated was as far from _Neal Caffrey,_ young, devil-may-care, in-it-for-the-thrill-of-it, and always-signs-his-works, as a description could get. Except, of course, for the _intelligent_ part. They thought he'd just dropped off the letter and it was best if they continued to think that. All they wanted was what he knew about the forger and, thanks to the file, he knew exactly what they expected to hear. He could work with that.

The only flaw in his plan was that Peter suspected he'd written the letter; he'd recognized the handwriting. But as far as he could tell, Peter hadn't actually spoken with the agents from Organized Crime, and he doubted they had ever seen his handwriting. A passing remark to Agent Littleton did not necessarily translate into that information being relayed. If it had been, Neal imagined he'd pick up on that pretty quickly, and if not all the better.

He wasn't keen on Peter's sympathy, but he had made the comment that if Neal didn't want to cooperate, he'd try to help. Neal knew the statement had been pity-inspired and once Peter had slept, he'd come to his senses and likely retract the offer. After all, Peter was FBI through and through. But he had a lot going on himself right now, and if Neal could talk to the agent from Organized Crime without him there, he'd have a much better chance navigating the situation to his advantage. Retrospectively, Peter would realize his deception but since Terrence Eden was going to prison either way, Neal didn't think he'd call him out. At least not officially.

It was with that plan in mind that Neal had placed the call to Peter.

The call, all in all, had only increased Neal's optimism about their current situation. The Bureau did not intend to pursue the trafficking case. Even though there was no statute of limitations, it was hard to make a case after so many years and with Eden already facing decades in prison, they'd decided not to expend time and resources for what would be, at best, a long shot. Not only that, but he was fairly certain Peter had not shared his thoughts about who had authored the letter. If he hadn't already done that, Neal didn't think he planned to.

That made things so much more simple. No video recorder. No recounting step by step the worse months of his life. Just some basic questions, Peter had indicated, the tying up of loose ends. A _conversation._

The only complication now was the Chicago detective. The man didn't present a legal threat but he could pose an emotional one. Neal had told Peter he didn't really remember him but that wasn't true; he remembered him well. He also remembered how scared he'd been the day he'd met him. He'd been afraid of Eden, afraid of the police, afraid of what lay ahead in New York. The detective had felt sorry for him, Neal could see it in his eyes, but he also saw compassion. He'd offered to help, and part of Neal wanted to accept it, but part of him knew that, in the end, it would just be another kind of trap. Danny Brooks had walked into the precinct that day, but Neal Caffrey had left the letter and walked out.

He felt better, more steady, more in control of his emotions but the thoughts of seeing Detective Strand again brought a sense of unease. The man had seen him as a kid, as a victim who needed saving. Neal didn't want a repeat of that today but the fact that he was in a hospital bed, his face black and blue, did nothing to allay that perception. He hadn't wanted to see his face before, to inspect the damage that still lingered there, but now he needed to do just that; he needed to know how bad it looked. It was to that end, as well as his intention to return to the chair instead of the bed, he'd asked to get up and go to the bathroom on his own.

"I think I'm good now," he related after a couple of minutes in an upright position.

"Just take it slow, Mr. Caffrey," the CNA reiterated, ready to lend a steadying hand if things went awry.

Hospital staff had been kind enough to launder his blue pajamas and, ready to begin his journey, he reached down and picked them up. It wasn't a Devore but he'd been told they brought out the blueness of his eyes and right now, he'd have to settle for that. He slipped off the edge of the bed and stood there a moment, just to be sure. The floor felt cold against his feet. Satisfied, he moved gingerly across the small space, the CNA keeping within an arm's distance. When he reached the bathroom door, he gave her a small smile.

"I think I can take it from here."

"Okay," she replied, "but if you get into any trouble just pull the emergency cord," she instructed. "Someone will be here in an instant."

If only life worked that way, he thought wistfully. But then again, in some ways, maybe it did. He did have Peter.

He thanked her, then stepped inside and pulled the door closed. He took as deep of a breath as his lungs would allow then reluctantly raised his eyes to the mirror.

He felt his breath catch at the image that peered back. Eyes wide, hair askew, face bruised and pale.

"I'm not Danny," he whispered to the boy in the mirror. "I'm _Neal_."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

He'd walked by the Chicago Precinct on Madison Street several times; three blocks past it was Mercy General, his best source for medical documents. Joyner worked in records; he had a gambling problem and was willing to do almost anything to keep his bookie paid up. He was good for some lifted papers on occasion, but generally, he provided blank documents. In the beginning, he'd given Neal copies of originals to be used as templates but by now, Neal understood the medical jargon and could mimic the signature of any doctor on staff, including the coroner. Death Certificates were a hot commodity; people paid a premium for them. Not to him, of course, but to Eden.

In the past, his occasional trip to Mercy hadn't raised any eyebrows. Eden had known about them, had provided the payment. But this trip was different. He wasn't going to Mercy; he had business at the Precinct. But just in case Eden had someone tailing him, he'd walked past it the first time.

He thought he was clear. The precinct was nearly three and a half miles, thirty-two blocks, out of Eden's domain, and today, in spite of his physical condition, he'd walked even further. He'd taken detours and made several stops. Once at Walgreens, again at a comic shop. He was checking the people on the street, looking for a familiar face or if not familiar, a consistent one shadowing his footsteps. Eden had said it at the beginning; he always knew more than you thought he did and Neal knew that claim to be true. Eden had spies everywhere, and if anyone saw him enter the precinct, or if word got back about the visit, the next beating would take his life.

Satisfied it was as safe as it could be, he circled back and with his heart pounding, entered the building. The precinct wasn't as busy as he'd thought it would be which was unfortunate. He knew his face still bore evidence of his punishment but he'd hoped with commotion and upheaval, and if he kept his face downturned, it would draw little notice. It was much better than it had been, the swelling and redness had faded. There was still bruising, of course, and some scabbing on the more severe abrasions, but his face had healed much quicker than other parts of his body. His arm was still very tender and his ribs hurt with nearly every breath. Especially after the mostly brisk four-mile walk that had brought him here.

He felt the gaze of the stern looking woman behind the counter almost immediately.

"Can I help you, young man?" Her tone was kinder than her face.

"Yes," he answered, his voice quieter than he'd intended. He could feel his throat closing in panic. "I'd like to report a crime."

She didn't seem surprised by his answer. There was a slight pursing of her lips; her eyes softened.

"Certainly," she answered, motioning to the swinging gate to her right. "Just step back here, and I'll get someone for you."

"Thank you."

Neal did as she'd directed, stepping through the gate and waiting as she disappeared through a double door he assumed led to the squad room. She was back in less than a minute.

"Detective Strand will be happy to talk to you," she informed with a nod towards the double doors she'd just exited. "Right through there; third desk on the right. He's waiting for you."

Neal was glad he was going back to the squad room. Standing here, in full view of anyone coming in or through the precinct, had made him very uncomfortable. Of course, it was just as possible that one of the officers knew Eden and with one call, would put him in imminent danger. The truth was there was no one to trust; ever. That was why, once he'd done what he'd come here to do, he was leaving Chicago. He'd never return to Eden's neighborhood or to the apartment he'd called home. Running was his only chance of surviving. The thought of going to an even larger city was daunting. He remembered the first weeks in Chicago; being cold and hungry. Sleeping under bridges and in doorways. It would be hard to start again, but he'd learned a lot since he'd been on his own. He'd learned one, no one did anything out of kindness and two, belonging somewhere was overrated. He was better alone and it was safer that way. The only person he needed was himself; that was the only person he could trust.

Detective Strand stood as Neal moved down the aisle towards him. There were a few others at work at their desk, but they only gave him a cursory glance as he passed. Strand was an older man; his hair more gray than brown. He was wearing a shirt and tie; a jacket hung over the back of his chair. A half cup of coffee in a Chicago PD mug sat on his less than tidy desk.

"I'm Detective Strand," the man said firmly, stepping over to an adjacent, unoccupied desk and borrowing a chair. He nodded, indicating it was for Neal and sank into his own. "Deb says you have something you want to tell me about."

Neal hesitated, unsure of how things would go once he said what he needed to say and handed over the letter. Would the detective let him leave or would he insist he stay, answer more questions? Although he had ID that said he was eighteen and therefore free to go if he chose, he didn't dare use that new identity here. Suddenly he was afraid he'd made a terrible mistake. He should have dropped the letter in the mail or just handed it over to the woman in front and left. But he was afraid they wouldn't take it seriously, would think it was just someone stirring up trouble. He'd wanted to talk to someone, to explain things, to make sure they understood people were in real danger; _children_ were in danger.

But if he were kept here, trapped in the city, Eden would find him. His doubts must have shown on his face because the detective's demeanor went from matter-of-fact to questioning. Sensing Neal's reluctance, he leaned forward, his brow furrowing in concern.

"It's okay." Even his tone had changed. "You don't have to worry," he assured, eyes darkening in anger. "I'm not going to let them hurt you again, you understand?" He sounded resolved. "Just tell me who it was."

For a second Neal was confused, but then he understood. It stood to reason with his face looking the way it did the detective assumed that was the crime he'd come to report.

When Neal, still standing, remained silent the detective took another tact. "At least sit down," he urged, again indicating the chair. "You look like you need to."

Neal didn't doubt that; the walk had taken its toll. The combination of exertion and the stress he was under was causing his muscles to tremble. After only a slight pause, he did as he was asked and took the proffered seat. He tried to keep his discomfort hidden, but the man's next question told him he'd been unsuccessful.

"Have you seen a doctor about that?" he asked with a nod towards the hand Neal had instinctively pressed to his side. "Made sure everything's okay?"

Of course, Neal hadn't been to a doctor. Doctors, like detectives, asked questions. He shook his head, and the detective sighed.

"Listen, son," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Whatever is wrong, whatever's _happened_ , I can help you; I _want_ to help you, but you _have_ to talk to me." The man's eyes were kind, and his concern seemed sincere, so he now presented an entirely different kind of threat. Neal was tired. He was hurt, and he was scared, and he wanted nothing more than for someone, anyone, to help him. Someone to fix all the things that were broken in his life. But no matter how much he wanted that he knew it wasn't possible. "Can we at least start with your name?"

Neal wasn't about to give him a name; the new or the old. Even if this man did mean what he said, there was no fixing the past. The only option was to move forward and leave it behind. That's what he needed to do; to leave the letter and go.

"Can I have something to drink?" Neal asked, his voice just above a whisper.

"Absolutely." The detective seemed pleased with the request and got to his feet immediately. "What would you like?"

"Just whatever you have," Neal replied. "It doesn't matter."

"I'll get you Coke, then," he supplied. "Anything else, something to eat maybe? There are snacks in the machine, but I can send someone out for something if you're hungry."

Again, Neal shook his head. "No thank you," he said. "Just a drink will be fine."

Less than thirty seconds later, the detective disappeared from sight; fifteen seconds after that, Neal did the same.

Thirty minutes later, he was sitting on a bus bound for New York, leaving Eden, Chicago and Danny Brooks behind him forever.

Or so he had thought.


	54. Chapter 54

_Good grief; a year ago I started a little story projected to be no more than a dozen chapters long. What began as a sprint, has evolved into a marathon._

 _Thanks to all who have diligently followed this story, posted reviews and generally encouraged me to continue._

 **Chapter Fifty-Four**

"I'll need your official, written report," Agent Hughes said as Peter stepped into his office. "The sooner I get the paperwork on this sent in the better."

"I can have it to you by lunch, sir," Peter replied. He, too, was eager to get the paperwork, and the mess it pertained to, over with.

"The end of the day is fine," Hughes told him, sinking into his chair. "I'll have my paperwork finished by then and I'll send everything up to Bancroft as well as over to OPR." Peter had left the door open and they now heard the muttering of the two agents as they exited the conference room. The glares the men sent in their direction before they descended the stairs were nothing less than hostile. Agent Hughes seemed unconcerned. "As a _courtesy,_ of course," he added with a smile.

"Not that I didn't enjoy seeing the looks on their faces," Peter admitted with a chuckle, watching the agents as they crossed the room below and made their way to the exit. "But do you think it was wise?" He asked, turning back to his boss. "Kicking them out like that?"

"They didn't have a damn thing to base an inquiry on once the complaints from the NYPD and the Marshal Service were withdrawn," Hughes replied with irritation. "Statements from people like Ruiz and Rice?" He scoffed, showing he held little respect for either. "They're both full of shit. Anyway," he added, looking at Peter pointedly. "I could tell you were getting hot under the collar. I was afraid you might say something you'd regret."

"So you decided to throw them out before I did?" Peter replied skeptically. "I don't see how that was much better. They're still pissed off."

"Yes," Agent Hughes agreed, "but at a Section Chief for defending a good agent. What I did was to be expected," he explained, "respected even, within the Bureau. If you'd blown your top in defense of Caffrey," he shook his head, "that would have been interpreted as a different thing altogether."

Hughes was right. An Agent defending an agent was one thing; an agent defending a convicted felon was another. That's what they'd been aiming to do, push him into losing his temper in defense of Neal. They'd have cited it as proof his judgment was impaired; that he'd somehow been fooled by his CI and should not be allowed to continue as his handler.

"Do you think we've heard the last of them?" Peter asked. "Is this the end of it?" He hoped it was; it would be one less thing hanging over his, and Neal's, head.

"I'm sure I'll get a call from their supervisor at OPR, telling me I had no right to treat his agents with such disrespect." He shrugged. "But if what they brought today is all they have then I'm not worried. Anyway," he added, "Agent Bancroft will back us; he _likes_ Caffrey."

Agent Bancroft had accompanied Neal to an art exhibit once, but Peter wasn't sure if Kyle Bancroft, Special Agent in Charge of White Collar and Hughes immediate superior, liked Neal or the success rate he brought. However, regardless of his reasons, having him in their corner on this was a good thing.

"Well, it's good to have friends in high places," Peter mused, ready to return to his office. "I'll get to work on that report now, sir."

"Like I said," Agent Hughes repeated, "the end of the day is fine. Tomorrow morning if they release Caffrey and you have to get him settled somewhere." He frowned. "Anyway, I thought you were going up with Agent Parker. Isn't he waiting for you?"

"No," Peter shook his head, "I told him to go on without me," he explained. "I wasn't sure how long I'd be, and they have a plane to catch." He glanced at his watch. "They're probably there by now."

"You think Caffrey can answer their questions?" Agent Hughes asked. Peter knew he could; he just didn't know _if_ he would.

"I'm not sure, sir," he answered honestly. "I guess it depends on what questions they ask him."

"Well, as bad as all this has been," Agent Hughes remarked, "at least you've gotten _some_ answers about Caffrey's past." Peter felt himself being studied. "I just thought you'd want to be there to hear what he has to say about it."

"Again," Peter explained, "I wasn't sure how long the meeting with OPR would take, and I didn't want to hold them up. Plus," he added, "Agent Parker said he'd brief me when he gets back and give me a copy of his notes."

Although his reason was a valid one, his boss's steady gaze told Peter the man suspected there was more to it than that. After all, the day before Peter had specifically asked to be allowed to stay for Agent Littleton's meeting with Neal. Yet today, he was more than content to be briefed after the fact. Hughes clearly found the change of attitude curious but Peter was glad he made no further inquiry.

"Okay, then," Hughes said after a moment. "Then I guess you _can_ get that report to me by noon."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter had just sat down at his own desk to work on the promised report when both Jones and Diana entered.

"That was fast," Jones began, "And they didn't look happy when they left. What happened?"

"It wasn't me," Peter defended, seeing the expression on Diana's face. She thought he'd ignored her warning. "It was Agent Hughes. He's the one who cut the meeting short and told them to get out." At their looks of surprise, he continued his explanation. "I answered their questions, gave them my statement and explained my actions. But they weren't really interested in any of that; they were here to find a reason to sink the agreement we have with Neal."

The glanced the two of them exchanged told Peter that this wasn't news to them.

"Yeah," Diana confirmed. "I got that impression as well. They talked to me yesterday," she informed him, "Talked to a lot of people and none of them had anything to do with this case. They were trying to get agents to say you've acted unprofessionally where Neal is concerned."

"They got some to say that," Peter remarked. "Agent Ruiz, Agent Rice," he shook his head. "Even some officer from the NYPD told them Neal was caught committing a crime and I used my badge to get him out of it. That was when Agent Hughes told them off and ended the meeting."

"Good for him," Agent Jones commended. "They called me in this morning with the same line of questioning," he added, "Said they had questions about my report but that wasn't what they asked about." He nodded at Diana. "Just like you said, they just wanted dirt on Peter and Neal." He looked back at Peter. "I could tell Agent Hughes was irritated but he just let them go on. He didn't say much."

Agent Hughes had been in the Bureau a long time, and he knew better than most how things worked. He didn't make a move without careful consideration and though his outburst may have at first come across as impulsive, Peter now doubted it had been at all. There had been a lag between his and Jones' meetings and Peter suspected Agent Hughes had not only orchestrated it but had used that time wisely.

"Well he said plenty this time," Peter replied, "and he didn't seem too concerned about any backlash. I have a feeling he talked to Agent Bancroft about OPR's true motives in this matter. He seems confident that Bancroft will back him on this."

"So you think that's the end of OPR's involvement in this case?" Diana asked.

"Hughes seems to think so," Peter told her. "Once the NYPD and the Marshals withdrew their complaints they didn't have any business involved anyway." He nodded at the assorted papers on his desk. "Hughes wants my reports together so he can get everything sent in and squared away."

"You're doing them now?" Jones asked. "I thought you were going with Parker and Strand to see Neal this morning."

Life in White Collar was like life in a Fish Bowl; everyone knew your business. Peter went through the whole spiel again.

"You think that's wise," Agent Jones asked when he'd finished, "letting them go without you? Neal's kept this buried a long time. You really think he'll tell them the truth about it now?"

Peter thought back to his earlier conversation with Neal. What had he said? He'd tell the truth, more or less. The sorting out of which was more and which was less would be the challenge.

"I don't know what he'll do," Peter admitted honestly, "but either way, it's his story to tell. Let him tell it."

"But he can _tell_ them anything," Jones reminded him, "true or not, and they won't be able to tell the difference. They don't know him like you do."

Peter enjoyed being considered the Neal Caffrey expert, loved the way Neal rolled his eyes anytime it was mentioned, but lately, the role was starting to be troublesome. It was one thing if he thought Neal was scheming, running some game of his own behind the scenes that could land him in trouble. Peter didn't hesitate then to watch him like a hawk, to use everything he'd learned over the years to read him, to catch any indication of deception. It was for his own good. Like he'd told the OPR agents, Neal could be impulsive and sometimes he was his own worst enemy. It was one of those areas where his duties as a handler, as well as an unofficial father figure, nicely fit together.

But now he was feeling an inner conflict; he wasn't a human lie detector and he didn't appreciate being used as one, especially in this situation. He'd told Neal that, as a CI, he wasn't entitled to privacy but this was different. Neal had been a victim, back then as well as now, and he deserved to be treated with some compassion. He'd left his past behind, tried to forget it and now that it had been resurrected, he was afraid of having to face it.

 _What if I can't?_ He'd asked that question only a day ago and yet this morning, he sounded ready, eager even, to do just that. Of course, Peter, being the Caffrey expert and all, knew what was going on. Neal was feeling better, was more in control of his emotions and had moved from _crisis_ to _crisis management._

Even if Neal was getting back to normal, was again able to conceal his feelings and hide his fears, it didn't matter. Peter knew they were there; he'd seen them, heard them. Had the curtain already fallen behind Neal's blue eyes? The next time Peter saw him, would there be a smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes? Would he have withdrawn, cutting himself off from everyone the way he had after Kate died?

Neal needed to deal with his past and he deserved to do it his own way, but Peter knew Neal's way was to ignore it and pretend it didn't affect him. He'd pass off the raw emotions he'd displayed as a side effect of the drugs he'd been given; he'd minimize the severity of the abuse he'd suffered at Eden's hands. It wasn't a big deal, he'd insist, it was a long time ago. It was over; he was fine.

But just as Agent Parker had observed, the effects of abuse, both physical and emotional, didn't just go away. A person carried the scars with them for the rest of their lives. Neal may have wanted to leave Danny behind in Chicago but that boy was a part of who he was. He'd have to confront that truth over the course of the next several months whether he wanted to or not; Peter didn't want him to do it alone, but of course, in the end, that would be up to Neal.

He hoped the last few days had made a difference, had let Neal know he had a friend and not just a handler, but only time would tell.

"It doesn't matter what he decides to tell them," Peter finally replied. "The truth or just the Caffrey version of it." He shrugged. "The Bureau has its case; Eden is going to prison either way."

Jones looked at him in disbelief. "So you don't care if Neal tells them the truth about what happened or not?"

"No, I don't," Peter replied with conviction. "I just hope one day he decides to tell me."


	55. Chapter 55

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

Neal had just exited the restroom, feeling a bit winded and wobbly, when Dr. Duvall entered the room.

"Mr. Caffrey," she greeted, a mix between surprise and disapproval on her face. "I see you are feeling better this morning."

"Yes, much," Neal replied, moving towards the recliner. Just this small amount of activity had left him out of breath. He wanted to be seated before any conversation began.

"I'm glad you're feeling better," she began, her tone suggesting the caveat that followed, "but you need to be very careful not to overexert yourself."

He didn't reply, gauging from the sharp pain that he felt with every breath that he'd done just that. She watched as he reached his destination and lowered himself, a bit gingerly, into the chair. "It's critical not to put any undue strain on your lungs," she continued.

"I'm not," Neal lied, still breathless, "I just wanted to change my clothes and clean myself up a bit."

Sitting wasn't as comfortable as he'd hoped it would be. He was afraid to lean back, afraid he'd not be able to get up again but sitting perched at the edge of the chair put a strain on his already tender ribs.

Dr. Duvall, seeing his dilemma, moved toward the bed. "I understand," she said as she retrieved two pillows and placed them behind his back. "But doing too much too soon will only set back your recovery. Is that better?" she asked. "Do you need another one?"

"No," he said gratefully, leaning back against the support she'd provided, "this is good. Thank you."

She took his wrist in her hand, then pressed her fingers to feel his pulse. He guessed it was still racing after his excursion into the restroom. While she was doing that, he took advantage of the moment to catch his breath. He didn't want to give the doctor any reason for concern; he needed to be discharged. He needed to get back to the city. Back to his apartment. He felt that once he could sleep in his own bed, wake up in his own place, he'd feel like himself again. That's what he wanted more than anything right now. A sense of normalcy. He quietly waited until she released his hand before speaking.

"I'm just tired of lying there," he explained, glancing towards the bed. "And besides," a tone of anxiety crept into his voice, "I have people coming this morning, and I need to be sitting up when they get here."

He did feel better, both physically and emotionally, and felt he'd mentally prepared for the upcoming meeting. He had a plan, an idea of how to mix enough truth with fiction to make a convincing account of his time with Terrence Eden. However, after learning from Peter who he'd be meeting with, he felt some uncertainty. He worried about being face to face with the Detective, feared that seeing the man might rattle him, cause him to lose his focus. He had a lot to accomplish this morning, and he needed to stay on task. He couldn't afford to be distracted by memories, or worse yet, feelings from the past. In the back of his mind, he still feared his emotions could get the better of him.

Dr. Duvall, picking up on his unease, raised her eyebrows questioningly. "I take it this isn't a social visit, then."

"No," Neal answered. "It's not. They have questions about what happened, not now," he tried to clarify, "I mean, in the past few days, but before..." he stopped, horrified at his rambling. She hadn't asked for details, and yet he was spewing them. Maybe he wasn't ready for this after all. "Nevermind."

"It's okay, Mr. Caffrey," Dr. Duvall said reassuringly. "You've been through a traumatic experience." Her words only brought him more unease. "What I said before," she continued, leaning down slightly, encouraging him to raise his eyes to meet hers, "about talking to someone about it, it really _can_ help you sort things out. Help you feel more in control."

He felt his face flush. "I don't need to sort it out," his retorted sharply. He could tell by her face that he'd just made her point and negated his own. He had to get a grip. If he couldn't keep it together with a doctor making small talk, what chance did he have with an FBI agent and a detective intent on getting answers? He took as deep a breath as he could. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "I'm just frustrated and tired of being here. When will I get to go home?"

"Hopefully very soon," she answered, "but as I said, we don't want to rush this. We need to make sure your lungs are clear and healing correctly. We can't take any chances of secondary infections, or you might find yourself right back here with pneumonia." After her firm warning, she put the earpieces of the stethoscope into her ears. "Let me have a listen." She then placed the drum on his chest. "Take a deep breath, please."

Neal did as he was told, and after repositioning the instrument several times, she asked him to lean forward. Then she repeated the process, this time listening from behind.

"Well?" Neal prompted when she'd finished her task. "Sound better?"

"You're lungs sound clear," she replied, removing the earpieces and letting the stethoscope again rest around her neck. "Any pain when you inhale or exhale?"

"No," Neal lied again. "My ribs are still sore," he added a bit of truth for effect, "and I get tired easy, but that's from being in bed for two days. Other than that, I'm good." He looked at her in anticipation, wondering if he'd been convincing enough. "Can I go home?"

"Not yet, Mr. Caffrey," she told him, "But maybe later today. You have a scheduled session with the respiratory therapist this afternoon, and I'd like another set of chest X-rays. Let's see how that goes and make a decision then. You're visitors," she continued, "do they have the authority to remove your tracking device?"

Neal realized that the hospital staff would have been made aware of his anklet, but he still felt his face flush when she referenced it. "No," he said, "You will probably have to contact my FBI handler for that."

"Agent Burke?"

"Yes," Neal replied. "Agent Burke."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal was glad Peter had let him know that Detective Strand had accompanied the Violent Crime Agent from Chicago. He didn't know how he would have reacted had the man just walked into his room without any warning. Still not what he wanted to deal with, at least he had some time to prepare himself for the reunion.

After Dr. Duvall left him, Neal did something he rarely did; he let his mind wander back to the past. He recalled the day he'd walked into the Precinct on Madison Street and his encounter with Detective Strand. It had been a brief exchange; in fact, he'd been so shaken up, so scared, he'd said very little at all. The Detective had tried to get him to open up, had promised to protect him, and Neal remembered how tempted he'd been to take the man up on the offer. But he knew it would be a mistake, to trust anyone or to stay in Chicago, so he'd left the letter and ran. He'd never revisited that decision, never second guessed his choice that day. He'd learned a long time ago that looking back was nothing but a waste of time and energy.

And yet that was what he spent the next half hour doing, looking back, specifically at his meeting with Detective Strand. He concentrated on remembering details, from the detective's dark blue striped tie and rolled up sleeves to the CPD Coffee cup that sat on his desk. He remembered his face, his tone of voice, the expressions that played through his eyes. His first impression had been that the detective was a hard ass, a stickler for rules who had little sympathy for anyone who broke them. He'd been okay with that, in fact, that was exactly the kind of person he wanted going after Eden. But the detective had a softer side, too, and Neal had seen it that day as well. There had been compassion in his eyes and Neal knew the man's concern for him had been genuine. The man had wanted to help but Neal hadn't let him.

Peter said Detective Strand had long wondered what had happened to the boy who'd left the letter and now he knew; he'd grown up to become a criminal. Not like Eden, of course, but a criminal all the same, and for the rule-following, black-is black-and-white-is-white crowd, it was a distinction without a difference. A criminal was a criminal. He was a conman, a thief, a forger. He imagined the detective had been disappointed to learn what had become of him, or rather, what he'd become.

The way he had planned to greet his visitors, and the way it actually happened, of course, were different. He'd planned to stand when they entered, to introduce himself, so he'd been waiting in anticipation of their arrival. But as time dragged on, he found himself growing weary. He wasn't sure if it was the medication he'd been given after breakfast or if just the act of being upright was draining his energy but his thoughts began to wander, and his eyes began to droop. Apparently, he dozed off.

One minute he sitting there in anticipation, eyes on the glass wall of his room waiting for the first glimpse of the men from Chicago and the next they were standing in front of him. One of them must have said something or otherwise made a sound because suddenly his eyes flew open and they were there. He felt his heart rate increase three-fold; so much for _being prepared._

Agent Parker looked impatient; Detective Strand, who's face was more deeply lined than Neal remembered, looked concerned. Neal could feel the man's eyes on him, taking in the bruises and abrasions that clothing could not hide. Neal knew he looked worse now than he had the first time the detective had seen him. That time he'd had a week of healing; this time it had only been a couple of days.

"Agent David Parker, Violent Crimes Division Chicago," The agent rattled off, flashing his badge in the swift manner of one who expected no questions. Neal immediately got to his feet, well, as immediately as he could manage, and did his best to keep the discomfort it caused from his face. Agent Parker indicated the detective with a curt nod as he pocketed his credentials. "This is Detective Strand, Chicago PD."

" _Retired_." Detective Strand, unlike the agent, stepped forward and extended his hand. "Please," he urged as they shared the standard greeting, "Sit back down." He glanced at the Agent. "We know you're recovering from some serious injuries."

Agent Parker nodded his agreement and Neal lowered himself into the chair. He didn't rest against the pillows; instead, he sat perched at the edge of his seat.

"This won't take long," Agent Parker said, glancing around the room, "but let me get another chair." Other than the one Neal was sitting in, there was only one other. Agent Parker placed the bag he was carrying on the hospital table and stepped out of the room in search of additional seating.

"I'll be damned," the detective said once the agent had departed, his eyes still fixed on Neal's face. "It's really you, isn't it?"

"Last time I checked, yes," Neal quipped with a small smile. "Neal Caffrey, at your service."

"Neal, huh?" the detective replied, pulling the chair from the other side of the room and taking a seat himself. "I always thought of you as a Johnny." When Neal raised his eyebrows in question, the detective shrugged. "You know, Johnny _Doe_."

Neal was spared having to respond as Agent Parker, successful in his efforts, returned with another chair. He positioned it near the detective's, retrieved his bag, and took a seat. Neal was pleased that the only thing he pulled from the bag was a file, albeit larger than the one he'd had the opportunity to peruse, and a pen. No recorders; no cameras.

"I just have a few questions for you, Mr. Caffrey," he began, flipping open the file. "About a letter you left with Detective Strand several years ago."

So it begins, thought Neal, with a quick glance at the detective. "I'll tell you what I can."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

He was never asked if _he_ wrote the letter so, in a way, he never had to outright about that. It didn't hurt that Agent Parker framed questions the way he did, asking things like _What can you tell me about the man who wrote the letter?_ Peter would have known better; he'd have been more direct.

"Not a lot," Neal had replied, "He didn't share personal information. No one did. It was safer that way."

He knew to stick as close to the truth as possible and that was what he did. Misleading information was slipped in when necessary, usually coupled with a convincing or even verifiable detail. He said he didn't know the man's name, had never been formally introduced and when asked to describe him, Neal used the information he'd read in the file to craft a general description. He made the man's physical appearance as commonplace as possible; Middle aged, brown hair, brown eyes. Medium build, medium height. Nothing that would make him memorable or stand out in a crowd. The only details he supplied was that he thought the man had a gambling problem and might have worked in a hospital or medical clinic of some kind.

"He had access to all kinds of personal documents," Neal explained. "Even coroner's reports and death certificates."

There had to be dozens of hospitals, and even more private clinics, within the Chicago area. The information was specific enough to sound believable but didn't provide much to follow up on. The agent's nod as he jotted down the information told Neal he was buying the story. After all, it perfectly aligned with the Bureau's profile.

"Do you remember ever seeing an ID badge, or anything with a logo on it?"

"Not that I recall," Neal replied, "but I wasn't around him a lot. Just once and awhile."

"I see," he said. "So what did you do _once and awhile_ that put you in contact with him?"

Neal paused, letting a look of concern cross his face. "You know," he began, glancing from the agent to the detective and back again, "that was a long time ago and the statute of limitations..."

"Relax Mr. Caffrey," Agent Parker interrupted. "You are right, it _was_ a long time ago, and nothing you say here is going to be a problem. I'm just looking for information." He stopped, trying to gauge whether he'd eased Neal's concerns. "What did you do that put you in contact with Eden's forger?"

"I was a pickpocket," Neal admitted reluctantly. He wasn't actually ashamed of it; in fact, he was rather proud of his skills. However, showing a sign of regret might be a sound strategic move. "That's what got me on Mr. Eden's radar in the first place. I made the mistake of trying to lift the wallet of one of his goons."

"I guess Mr. Eden gave you a choice of sorts, didn't he?" The agent's tone suggested he knew enough about Terrence Eden to imagine the type of choices he was likely to have offered.

"Yeah," Neal nodded, "so I agreed to work for him. He gave me something to eat, got me a place to stay," Neal shrugged. "Said I could keep the cash, but I had to give him the credit cards, drivers' license, security badges or anything else useful."

"So you supplied documents used for credit card fraud and identity theft," Agent Parker said, again making a note. "And that's how you met him?" he continued, looking up at Neal once more, "Eden's document maker?"

"Yeah," Neal replied. "Sometimes he was in Eden's office when I stopped by to drop off my haul." He was a convicted forger so he might as well cover that while he was at it. "I'd done some, uh, _document modification_ of my own so sometimes, when I could, I hung around, you know," he added, "and watched him work."

"To learn some tricks of the trade?"

"Something like that."

Agent Parker frowned as if something in Neal's story wasn't adding up. "You say didn't know this guy, not even his name, and that you didn't spend much time with him." He stopped and seemed to be waiting for Neal to respond, but since no question had been posed, Neal kept quiet. "And yet," the agent continued, "one day, he just up and asked you to drop a letter incriminating your boss at the local precinct?" His tone was one of disbelief. He shook his head. "I have to say, that doesn't track with me. Why would he take such a chance? How did he know you wouldn't go straight to Eden?"

Neal's pause was slight. As much as he didn't want to delve into unpleasant details, sharing some of them would lend credence to his account of the events. "Because Mr. Eden nearly _beat_ me to death," Neal admitted, eyes traveling to the detective's face. "I was in bed for _three_ days, unable to get up." He felt his face burn at the memory. "I had just gotten back on my feet. I was hurt, and looking for a way out, and he gave me one. The only thing I had to do was drop the letter on my way out of town."

"He gave you a way out," the agent repeated thoughtfully. "So he provided you with what?" he asked. "A new identity? Cash to relocate?"

This was dangerous territory, Neal told himself. He needed to proceed with caution. "Something like that," he said a bit uneasily.

His words were met with an expression of curiosity and Neal feared the follow-up would be a question about who he was, or rather, who he _had_ been before he was Neal Caffrey.

But that question did not come. "But if he wanted to shut Eden's business down, why didn't he go to the police himself?" Agent Parker asked instead. "He would have been granted immunity for his crimes, offered protection. Why write a letter and send it by you?"

Peter would have asked; Peter probably _would_ ask at some point but Agent Parker, thankfully, was not Peter. He didn't care who he'd been, or even who he was now. He was single-mindedly focused on tying up loose ends on the cold case file in his hand.

"I don't know why," Neal replied wearily. He was grateful for the reprieve, but for a short meeting, this one seemed to be dragging on. "I guess he had his reasons."

"And you don't know what those reasons were?" the agent pressed, sounding somewhat skeptical. "Or his _name_ , or what became of _him_?"

"No, I don't," Neal told him, frustration creeping into his voice. The strain on his ribs as well as his mental state was beginning to take a toll. "He asked me to give the letter to the police, and I did," He reiterated, shifting his position in the chair. He was unable to keep a grimace of pain from his face. "I left it on _his_ desk," he continued, nodding at Detective Strand, his voice beginning to shake slightly. "then I caught a bus out of Chicago and never looked back. That's all I know _._ _Please_ ," he entreated, hand pressing to his side protectively, "I'm _really_ tired." He hated pity but if it shortened this meeting he'd take it. "I've told you all I can."

"I understand," Agent Parker replied, but his eyes held no understanding or pity. "I just have a couple of other things I want to run by you."

Neal could only hope. He watched as Agent Parker flipped to the back of the file and removed several photos. Neal guessed they were shots of some of Eden's known or suspected associates and Agent Parker was looking for either verification or identification.

The agent held up the first one; Neal recognized him immediately. He was one of the men who'd sent him in through windows or vents when his size made him the entry man in a robbery.

"I don't know his name," Neal said apologetically, knowing the agent would be tired of hearing that. "But when I was there, he was one of Eden's burglary crew."

The agent pursed his lips, put the photo away and presented the next one.

"Robert," Neal said instantly, glad to offer something. He was afraid the agent would think he was purposefully holding back information. Of course, he was purposefully holding back, but he couldn't afford for the agent to realize it. "I met him the first day. He'd been with Eden almost five years." Neal paused, recalling that exchange and how naive he'd been. "He wasn't much older than me," he added. "He said he was from Springfield."

"What was his role?" he asked. "Was he a burglar too?"

"I don't think so," Neal replied honestly, "At least I never worked with him. I don't know exactly what he did."

Neal was tired, and he'd made a slip, and the small smile on Agent Parker's face told him he had caught it.

"I take it then," the agent said, "That providing credit cards and forms of stolen ID were not the only things you did for Eden. Were you a part of that burglary crew as well?"

It wasn't that Neal was afraid of admitting the crimes he'd been part of; he knew the statute of limitation had passed years ago. But for every question he answered, there would be another one, and he didn't want to keep being asked about the past. He just wanted it over and done with.

"Yes, I was," he said shortly, his patience and energy both wearing dangerously thin, "they shoved me through windows, or into air vents because I was small and could get into places they couldn't. Sometimes," he confessed, eyes flashing,"I even cracked the safe for them because I was good with my hands. What difference does any of this make _now?_ "

The agent raised his eyebrows, surprised by Neal's outburst. "None whatsoever, Mr. Caffrey," he replied innocently, "I was just curious, that's all. I didn't mean to upset you." He replaced the photo of Robert. "I have one more photo for you to look at," he promised, "and then we'll call it a day. Do you ever remember seeing _this_ man?"

He held up the final photo and Neal felt his chest constrict; his breath catching in his throat. He felt paralyzed, unable to take a breath or tear his eyes from the face that peered back at him. He'd only seen the man once in person, sitting at a table with Terrence Eden, but he'd seen him many times in his nightmares. The enlarged mug shot the agent held in front of him blurred, replaced by the cruel, sneering face from his nightmare. His heart pounded furiously; sweat trickled down his face.

"Mr. Caffrey?" Agent Parker's voice came from a distance, penetrating Neal's mind, jolting him from his nightmare and back into reality. Once more aware of his surrounding, he realized both Agent Parker and Detective Strand were on their feet, staring at him with shocked expressions. Oh, my god, Neal thought, looking at them in horror, how long had he been sitting there, freaking out? What had he done? What had he _said_? Still gasping for breath, he felt himself begin to tremble as sudden nausea swept over him. He was going to be sick. His hand moved instinctively, covering his mouth just as his gag reflex kicked in.

Agent Parker recoiled, some explicative erupting from his lips, but Detective Strand moved closer, grabbing the small waste basket and holding it in front of Neal. The first gag produced nothing except a sharp pain in Neal's ribcage; the next one was more productive.

"Don't just stand there," Detective Strand barked at the agent. "Go _get_ somebody."

Spurred to action, Agent Parker left the room and moments later Neal, arm wrapped around his midsection, finished emptying his breakfast into the wastebasket.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled raising his eyes to the detective's face. "Been having some trouble keeping my medicine down."

Neal knew it wasn't his medication that had caused his nausea and the detective's expression told him he knew it, too. There was understanding, pity even, in the older man's eyes and Neal, still shaken from the incident, felt the familiar sensation in his throat that usually accompanied tears. He'd thought he was past this but apparently, he was mistaken. He immediately broke the connection, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Nothing to be sorry about," the man assured him quietly, moving the wastebasket to the side. "It's our fault," he added apologetically. "We stayed too long and pressed too hard."

Neal met the man's eyes again, desperately wanting to refute his words, to downplay his reaction to the photograph of Mr. Douchant, but the words did not come.

Hospital personnel, closely followed by Agent Parker, entered the room and a moment later, both the Agent and the Detective were ushered from it.

As humiliated as Neal was by the whole incident, it did, effectively, put an end to the meeting. That, at least, was something to be thankful for.


	56. Chapter 56

_Thanks for all who take the time to post a review or PM me. It makes me happy, reminding me that people are still reading this very, very, very long story..._

 **Chapter Fifty-Six**

The nurse on one side and the CNA on the other, Neal was helped back to his bed. Once he was on his feet and felt the weakness of his knees, he was glad they'd ignored his protest; his insistence that he could manage on his own. He could feel himself shaking as they covered the short distance between chair and bed.

His heart was still racing; he hadn't been prepared to see the face of Douchant, the man from his nightmare. Sometimes, when he had that dream, he'd wake up, heart pounding and gasping for breath. Other times he'd wake himself shouting, or worse, begging. He wasn't sure what happened in the moments between seeing the photo and hearing Agent Parker's voice, but the expressions on the men's faces told him something had. Then he'd punctuated his performance by vomiting into the wastebasket. He'd tried to downplay it to the detective, but his explanation had sounded lame even to his own ears. He was glad the men had been sent out of the room, but he feared they were outside, waiting to return. They'd have more questions, this time about Douchant. They'd want to know how he knew the man. He could tell them the truth, that he _didn't_ know him, but they weren't going to believe that; not after the spectacle he'd made of himself when the agent showed him the photograph.

"Are they gone?" he asked breathlessly as they reached the bedside.

"I'm not sure," the CNA replied, glancing towards the hallways. "Do you need me to get them for you?"

"No," Neal said quickly, shaking his head emphatically. "No, I don't need them."

They'd want an explanation, and he didn't have one, at least, not one he was willing to share. He couldn't explain why the man evoked such fear in him. After all this time, he knew it was irrational, but that didn't stop the terror from enclosing him, paralyzing both his muscles and his mind. His face burned with shame as he remembered the threat Eden had made; that he'd make money off him one way or the other. The nightmare, his mind playing out that horrible scenario, had begun that very night. It had haunted him ever since. In the beginning, it had robbed him of night after night of sleep as he made his way to New York City. Then, as he settled into his new environment, it had occurred with less frequency. His first nights in prison, again, had prompted its return. But once he'd manage to grease the right palms, buying security and then a private cell, with time, he again was granted respite. But now it had returned. The other night had been terrible, but this was worse; it was the first time he'd experienced a _waking_ nightmare. He knew it was that, and not something medical, was responsible for his sudden weakness and uncontrollable trembling.

Once he was perched on the edge of his bed, the CNA left to take care of the wastebasket. At least this time, it was only a wastebasket; not his blankets, sheets, and clothing that needed changing. That considerably lowered his level of embarrassment with at least that aspect of the situation.

"Are you still feeling nausea?" the nurse asked as she helped him onto the bed. She retrieved one of the pillows from the chair and placed it behind his back.

"Not as much," Neal replied. She pressed the lever, lowering his head slightly. "It's mostly passed now."

"Had you been feeling sick?" she asked, producing a pen light and checking his pupils, "or did it come suddenly?"

"Suddenly, I guess," Neal replied. He wanted to tell her all the fuss was unnecessary, that he'd just gotten upset, freaked out. Of course, unwilling to explain the what or why he kept silent and let her continue her examination.

After she had pocketed the instrument, she took his wrist in her hand. Neal knew his pulse was still racing; there was no danger, but it was taking some time for his body to get the memo. Next, she detached the blood pressure cuff from its place above the bed and wrapped it around his forearm. A moment later, it was squeezing him painfully. She took it twice, neither time sharing the results but the frown on her face deepened. She replaced the cuff, then placed her hand on his forehead.

"You're shaking," she observed. "Are you cold?"

"No," Neal answered, "I'm just..." he stopped, glancing down at his arms. They were covered with goosebumps. "I don't know," he mumbled, not understanding why his trembling was increasing as opposed to decreasing.

"Try to relax, Mr. Caffrey," she replied, her tone transitioning from in _quiry_ to in _charge_. "I'm going to check your incisions and make sure your lungs are clear, okay?"

Neal could tell neither his opinion nor consent were necessary. She raised his shirt, then unfastened the wrap that held his rib immobilized. She took care to ease off the pressure gradually instead of all at once, but still, a grunt of pain escaped his lips.

She met his eyes with concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Neal managed to say in spite of his growing discomfort. "I'm okay."

She raised the edge of the bandage that covered his incision. The tape pulled at his skin, but in comparison to the pain he was feeling, it barely registered. Apparently satisfied with what she saw there, she pressed the bandage back into place. She moved her fingers over his rib cage, applying gentle pressure with a look of concentration on her face.

"Any pain here?"

"Some." Understatement. The pain had been a consistent presence, but it was intensifying.

"Can you describe it?" She asked. When Neal didn't immediately respond, she elaborated. "Soreness, dull ache, sharp pain..."

"Sharp pain," he admitted through gritted teeth as her fingers found a tender spot. "When you press or when I breath." There was something else now, something new. "And it feels..." he stopped, unable to define the sensation that was gripping him. "Heavy," he supplied, moving his hand to his chest. "It's getting harder to breathe."

He'd thought his symptoms were just the lingering after effects of his dream. He always awakened breathing hard and sweating, his heart pounding. Then, once he was awake, the shaking and weakness would set in. That passed within fifteen or twenty minutes. But he'd never felt anything like this. Until now.

"Pressure?" the nurse was asking, her tone sharpened with renewed concern. "In your chest?"

"Yeah," Neal nodded, "like something is...you know, squeezing me." He was beginning to fear something was actually wrong.

Her frown deepening, she put the ear pieces of the stethoscope in place and positioned the cold drum against Neal's chest. After listening a moment, she re-positioned it.

"Take a deep breath for me," she instructed. He did the best he could. "Again," she said.

The second time he only managed to produce a sharp cough. "Sorry," he mumbled. He tried again. This time, his cough was more severe, sending a wave of pain through him. The nasty taste in his mouth now had a salty bite.

The nurse's expression told him something was wrong before she hit the call button on his bed. "RRT, _Stat,"_ her voice rang out.

Seconds later, the hospital PA echoed her words, including his room number. Feeling wetness on his face, Neal reached up to wipe it; his hand came away bright red. The squeezing across his chest was growing worse; he couldn't get a breath and there was _blood_ on his hand. Something was _very_ wrong. He suddenly felt lightheaded; the room swam before his eyes.

"What's happening?" he gasped, eyes seeking hers in desperation. "What is-"

"You're going to be okay, Mr. Caffrey," she said firmly, placing an oxygen mask on his face. It hadn't been here before; it seemed to have materialized from nowhere. She leaned close, fixing her eyes on his as she held the mask in place. "Don't try to talk," she instructed him calmly. "Just relax and breath slowly."

The room was suddenly flooded with people. A man he'd never seen before was suddenly at his side. "What do we have?"

The nurse straightened and began speaking, but for some reason, Neal couldn't understand her words. They sounded unclear; jumbled. He tried to focus, knowing what she was saying was important, but her voice grew distant and her face began to waver. It reminded him of the way the view down the street sometimes distorted as the heat waves radiated from the pavement.

There was a lot of activity, he was being jostled and prodded, but it was as if the volume had been turned to low. Then bit by bit, it got lower and lower, and then with the silence, came darkness.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter had finished his paperwork, finally, and left it with Agent Hughes before descending the stairs to join Jones and Diana for lunch. They'd agreed on the little Italian bistro place two blocks away and were about to leave the office when Agent Parker, sans Detective Strand, came through the door.

"Agent Parker," Peter greeted, "I think you've met Agent Jones and Agent Berrigan." The three exchanged brief nods of recognition. "How did things go with Neal?" Peter inquired with genuine curiosity. "Did he answer your questions?"

"He couldn't give me the name I wanted," the agent replied. "You know, of the guy who wrote the letter," Peter felt both Jones and Diana's eyes on him, waiting to see if he was going to say anything; he didn't. "but it was still a very productive meeting," the man continued. "You got a minute to talk?"

"Sure," Peter answer, glad to get the briefing he'd been promised. "You two go ahead," he took the wallet from his pocket, extracted a bill and handed it to Jones. "Just bring me back the usual," he instructed, "Pepperoni hero and a bag of chips."

They often had lunch there, or called in an order and sent Neal to pick it up. It was close, relatively inexpensive and the food was good. Neal tried a variety of the menu items and urged him to do the same, but he stuck with what he knew he liked.

Jones and Diana, their expressions telling him they, too, would expect a briefing, departed. "Let's go up to my office."

Peter lead the way, and Agent Parker followed. Once they were inside the agent opened the black bag he carried, removed a file and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and sat down at his desk. The agent took a seat as well.

"I wanted the name of the man who wrote the letter because he's the only person we know that could tie Eden to Douchant's business," he explained, leaning forward. "But even if I found him, Agent Hobbs, my immediate superior, isn't convinced we could make that case after all this time. Not with the testimony of one, less than credible witness from ten years ago."

This was basically what he'd told Peter earlier; that Violent Crimes didn't plan to pursue the case. But Peter could tell since the agent's meeting with Neal he thought that decision might be reversed. Peter felt a wave of concern. He'd assured Neal that the meeting was just a routine, closing out an old file discussion. It now seemed that might not be the case after all.

What had Neal said to have changed that? He opened the file, hoping to glean something from Agent Parker's notes that would answer that question.

Peter let his gaze drop to the sheet of paper that had been placed in the front of the file. The top of the page contained the information Neal had provided on the forger. Oddly enough, it lined up perfectly with the profile of the man the FBI had created at the time. A profile that had been included in the file Peter had left unattended in Neal's room while he and Elizabeth grabbed a bite to eat. The personal details Neal had supplied, though Peter knew they were untrue, were very convincing; the bit about him possibly working in healthcare was particularly inspired. Neal had finished up with a physical description so _Joe Average_ it was completely useless; it matched every other middle aged, white man you'd pass on the street. The persona of the forger Neal had crafted was altogether believable. The only thing missing was a name and Peter was surprised Neal hadn't invented one.

"But Neal didn't give you a name."

"No," Agent Parker said, "but he might be able to give me something even better. That is," he added, "if you can convince him to cooperate."

Peter looked up in surprise. Judging by the number of notes Agent Parker had written, one full page and another half so, even if Neal hadn't been altogether honest he certainly _appeared_ to be cooperating.

"I don't understand," Peter said. "Are you saying he _didn't_ cooperate with you?"

"No, he cooperated," the agent assured him, nodding at the file in Peter's hand. "He explained how he got mixed up with Eden, how came in contact with his forger, and why he was the one to give the letter to the police."

Peter glanced through the next several notations. He wanted to read all of them in detail, but now he was looking for what Neal had said that had rejuvenated the Agent's interest in bringing charges against Eden.

Neal had been a pickpocket, he read. That was what Eden had used him for, at least, at the beginning; to supply credit cards and various ids for fraud and identity theft. It sounded as if Neal had been on the streets. Alone, hungry and probably desperate, he'd been an easy mark for Eden.

"So Eden fed him and gave him a place to stay," Peter remarked quietly, reading Agent Parkers notes.

"Pretty much the man's standard operating procedure," the agent admitted. "Caffrey said he was also part of Eden's burglary operation. He was small and could get into places the other men could not. He was their entry man."

Peter flipped up the page, taking a moment to scan the next page. It looked as if Neal had identified some of Eden's suspected accomplices.

"So what is it you think he knows that he's not telling you?" Peter asked, looking up from the file. He'd seen nothing in the agent's notes to justify his sudden change of heart regarding the case. "Looks to me like he answered everything you asked and then some."

An odd look crossed the man's face, almost as if he was unsure of how to proceed. It was the first time Peter had seen any doubt in the man since he'd met him.

"Something happened at the end," the agent said hesitantly. With a frown, Peter again flipped up the first page of notes to see the second. "Something I didn't write down," the agent added.

Peter looked up again, "What happened?"

"When we were wrapping things up, I had Caffrey look at some photos." He nodded to the file. "They're in the back of the folder," he directed. Peter found them with ease.

The first two he was unfamiliar with; the third photo he'd seen before; Francis Douchant. The man who was serving life without parole for human trafficking. He glanced back at the agent, waiting for the rest of the story.

"Caffrey knew Douchant."

Peter had assumed Neal's reasons for keeping his more significant role in Eden's organization a secret was because he didn't want to give Agent Parker or the FBI, any reason to further question him on the topic. Agent Parker had been looking for someone who could establish a business relationship between Terrence Eden and Francis Douchant; he now thought he'd found one. Neal.

Peter couldn't believe Neal would put himself right back on the hot seat as a potential witness. "Did he _say_ that?"

"He didn't have to," the agent replied, leaning back in his chair. "His reaction to the photograph said it for him."

Peter didn't like the sound of that. "What do you mean?"

"He went rigid the second he saw it," the agent explained, "Stock still. His eyes were big as saucers, didn't even take a breath for several seconds. Then he starting breathing fast and sweating. It was like he was in a trance or something," he continued. "He was that way a full half a minute before I could get him to come to his senses. Then he started shaking and threw up in the trashcan. The nurse kicked us out after that."

Peter was stunned. What the agent was describing was a visceral reaction: an immediate, instinctive, gut-deep bodily response to strong negative emotions. Just a familiar face, someone met in passing, or even an acquaintance would not provoke such a reaction, and Agent Parker knew it.

"I don't know how much you know about Francis Douchant," the agent ventured, "But he had a..." he paused, " _proclivity_ for young boys."

Peter felt his stomach lurch at the implication. "You don't think he...?" Peter couldn't even bring himself to say the words.

The man nodded, anticipating the unfinished question. "Caffrey would have been the right age back then," he stated matter-of-factly, "and it would account for his reaction when he saw the man's picture."

"Oh my God," Peter said under his breath, reeling from the thought that Neal may have been a victim of such abuse. "That's awful." No wonder he'd never spoken of his time in Chicago. No wonder he'd chosen to go to prison rather than tell about it. No wonder he'd told Peter he didn't know if he could face his past, even now.

He wanted to go to Neal, to somehow make this better but he knew there was nothing he could do.

"Yes, it is," he heard the agent agree, "but it could prove useful for this case."

Peter's feeling of horror switched to one of disbelief. "What?" his tone was sharp.

"Hear me out," the agent said hastily. "We know Eden recruited Caffrey, and if he...you know.. _.provided_ him to Douchant, that would tie him to the man as well as to the trafficking case. If Caffrey would give a statement verifying that," he continued, "we _could_ charge Eden as a co-conspirator, even now."

Peter couldn't believe his ears; couldn't believe the man would use such a thing to make a case that didn't matter. Eden would die in prison, with or without additional charges.

"Eden's already going to prison for life," Peter reminded him. "And you said your office wasn't going to pursue this case. Even if you _had_ someone that tied Eden back to Douchant."

"That was when we thought our only witness would be a forger from ten years ago," he clarified. "Now we have someone better, a victim," the man's exuberance was disturbing. "Someone the jury will believe and sympathize with. That could change things."

"You don't know that's what happened," Peter said, trying to convince himself of that as well.

"You didn't _see_ him," the agent countered. "Trust me, something happened, and Douchant was involved."

"Even if Douchant..." Still unable to articulate such a horrific act, Peter let the sentence trail off. "Surely, you don't expect Neal to _talk_ about it."

"Not to me, no," the agent admitted, "But Agent Littleton said you're good with Caffrey, that he trusts you. He's vulnerable right now. If you could get him to open up, to tell you what happened..."

"Look," Peter said, getting to his feet, "that's not going to happen." Neal wasn't a victim to Agent Parker; he wasn't even a person. He was just a means to an end. "I'm not a shrink, and I'm not about to start that conversation. I'm sorry."

Peter wasn't in the least bit sorry, however, he did want a copy of the man's notes. It was best to bring things to a close before he either pulled an Agent Hughes or punched the man in the jaw.

Sensing the meeting was drawing to an end, Agent Parker rose too. "I know you're not a shrink, but you are his handler," he pointed out. "You have a lot of say over what happens to him, and he knows it; you could use your influence to make him work with us."

Peter looked at him in disbelief. How could the man be so callous, so indifferent to Neal's plight? "Do you have any idea what that might do to him?"

"I'm sure it wouldn't be pleasant," he replied with little concern, "but it could close this case and get the Bureau a conviction. That's our job, Agent Burke. To put criminals where they belong. Not to hold their hands or worry about their feelings."

Peter felt his temper rise. Neal was a criminal and deserved no sympathy or compassion. That was the man's opinion.

"It's also our job to protect victims from further harm," Peter replied, trying to keep his cool. "And that's why we don't _force_ them to testify if they aren't ready."

"Caffrey's not a victim," the man insisted, "I've read his sheet; he's a _criminal_. I can understand Strand; he still sees Caffrey as that beat up kid who disappeared on him but you?" He shook his head, frustrated at Peter's lack of cooperation. "You _know_ better. You chased him for three years and sent him to prison. You _know_ what he is."

Peter took a breath. "Yes I do," he said with remarkable control. "He's my CI and a member of my team. I've worked with him almost two years. He's smart, he works hard, and he always comes through when we need him. He's done a lot of things wrong in his life, but he's done a lot right, too. He's sitting in that hospital because he was kidnapped, and a young man is home with his mother because Neal did whatever it took to keep him safe. You might know his paperwork, but I know the man."

For the first time during their exchange, the agent seemed to have heard him. "Look," he began, "It's not that I want-"

The vibrating of Peter's phone interrupted the agent's response, and he paused as Peter removed it from his pocket and read the text. "What the _hell_ -"

Another vibration indicated an incoming call; caller ID read Good Samaritan Medical Center. He clicked the answer button.

"Burke," he said tersely.

"This is Dr. Edwards, Good Samaritan Medical Center. I have you as the emergency contact for Neal George Caffrey, is that correct?"

"Yes," Peter said, feeling his heart sink. "What's wrong?"

Peter listened as the doctor quickly explained the situation. There had been a complication, the doctor informed him. Neal was suffering respiratory distress likely caused by a pulmonary hemorrhage. A surgeon had been called in and Neal was being prepped for surgery.

"We had to remove the device on his ankle," the doctor explained. "He needs an MRI before surgery, and there simply wasn't time to wait for someone authorized to remove it."

"That's not a problem," Peter replied, the cut tracking device the least of his worries. "How bad is it?" he asked, glaring at the man he held responsible. "It's not life-threatening, is it?"

"I'm not in a position to answer that, Agent Burke," the doctor replied. "I was just on the hall when the incident occurred; I've not even seen the results of the MRI. But Dr. Allison is an excellent surgeon. Mr. Caffrey is in good hands."

"Thank you," Peter said. "I'll be there as soon as I can get there."

Agent Parker had picked up enough to know something was wrong, and probably deduced by Peter's disposition who it was about. "Caffrey?"

"Yes," Peter snapped. "He apparently suffered a _setback_ this morning," his eyes drilled accusingly into the man, "and now he's bleeding into his lungs. He's on the way to surgery right now."

The man looked stunned at his words. "I didn't know," he said as Peter stepped out from behind his desk. "I was just showing him photos," he explained as Peter moved past him. "I had no idea he'd recognize Douchant," he insisted, following Peter out of the office, "much less that it would affect him so badly. _I didn't know_."

Peter spun around, and Agent Parker stopped in his tracks. "But you didn't care, did you?" Peter blasted, not caring that his voice was traveling across the entire office. "In fact, five minutes ago you were pretty excited about it. All you saw was a chance to make yourself look good, to close an old case. You didn't care what it did to him. After all, he's just a _criminal_ , isn't he?"

The man had no answer; Agent Hughes stuck his head outside his door. "Everything okay out here?"

"No, it's not," Peter replied, but he didn't have time to explain. "I need to go, Reese," he said, using the man's name without thinking. "I just got a call from the hospital. Neal's in trouble; they're taking him into surgery now."

"You go," Agent Hughes replied without hesitation, his face showing his concern, "Anything you need me to do?"

"Call the Marshal Service," Peter said, already moving towards the stairs. "Tell them it was an emergency and the hospital cut Neal's anklet and that I'm on my way there now. Oh," he added, his eyes going back to Agent Parker, "Make sure Agent Parker leaves a copy of his interview notes on my desk before he leaves."

"I'll take care of it, and Peter," he added. "Let me know how Neal is, okay? It's not the same around here without him."

It wasn't like Hughes to make such a proclamation, especially in the front of a visiting agent.

"I'll tell him you said that," Peter replied.


	57. Chapter 57

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

He had received three calls before he reached his car. The first from the Marshal's Service, Agent Donaldson to be precise, telling him they'd received an alert that Neal's ankle tracker had been disabled. Peter appreciated that the man's tone, although brisk, was more inquiring than accusing this time around. Peter explained what had occurred, that Agent Hughes would be contacting his office, and that he was currently on his way to the hospital. Local law enforcement had automatically been dispatched, but Donaldson assured him they'd be contacted and apprised of the nature of the situation. An officer would have to remain on the scene until Peter arrived; it was standard procedure.

The second call was from Agent Littleton. He'd also received a call from the hospital. They spoke briefly, the agent expressing his concern as well as requesting an update on Neal's condition once it became available. Peter told him he would.

The third was from Elizabeth; she didn't always call him at lunch, but today she did. She'd gone to work with the goal of taking care of things that had to be done on site or delegating them to others. She planned to work from home the rest of the week, insisting that Neal come to their house once he was released. She knew he'd protest but the stairs at June's would be difficult to navigate, and he would need someone with him at least for the first few days. Peter had told her Neal might be released later in the afternoon. Her call was to see if Peter had heard anything yet to confirm it. Peter had to tell her the bad news and that Neal being released today was highly unlikely.

"They just called," he finished up, unlocking the door to the Taurus, "and I'm on my way up there now."

"I don't understand," she protested, the news taking her by surprise. "He was so much better this morning. What happened?"

"I'm not sure, El," Peter lied, snapping his seatbelt into place. "But I promise I'll call you as soon as I know something."

"Do I need to come, Peter?" she asked, her voice telling him she was on the verge of tears. "Or call Mozzie and June?"

He knew what she was asking. The two of them, plus Mozzie and June, were all the family Neal had. He turned the key in the ignition.

"It's a setback, but he's going to be okay El," he said firmly, hoping to assure her and himself as well. "Dr. Allison is the best; he'll take care of whatever is wrong. I'll call you the minute I know anything. Try not to worry," he added.

"Too late for that," she replied. He'd known it was a useless request when he'd uttered the words. "I'm calling them, Peter," she told him. "I think they need to know."

He couldn't argue with that. "I call you when I have news," he promised again. "I love you, El."

"Love you, too, hun," she replied. "Please call me soon."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The drive was long, and Peter's mind stayed in turmoil the entire time. He worried about Neal; what the doctor described sounded serious, but he couldn't get the conversation with Agent Parker out of his head. He could make himself trust the doctors with Neal's physical health; that was out of his hands. It was Neal's mental health, his emotional well-being, that Peter felt fell directly to him. After all, who else did Neal have? Mozzie? He hadn't even known about Eden and even now that he did, he wasn't likely to encourage Neal to deal with his issues. Mozzie, like Neal, was a master of denial and evasion.

So much had happened in the space of just a few hours. After his talk with Agent Parker yesterday, and his brief exchange with Neal this morning, he'd thought maybe the worst of this was over. He knew there were things from the past that Neal needed to deal with and he hoped, one day, the young man would be able to confide in him, to work through them. Eden was a bastard; he'd preyed on a desperate kid in need of help and had exploited him for his own gains. Neal was prideful; he'd never want to be perceived as someone who could be manipulated even if it had happened when he was just a kid. Agent Parker's notes said Eden had offered Neal food and a place to stay. That told Peter that at a young age Neal had been without those most basic needs. How old had he been? Where were his parents? Why was Neal picking pockets to survive? Peter guessed Eden wasn't the first person Neal had trusted that had let him down. The photo of a beaten and battered Neal, or Danny as Peter had learned he'd been called, had given him an indication of what Neal had endured. Like Elizabeth had pointed out, it revealed a lot about the way Neal operated. It explained his lack of trust, the reason he couldn't admit when he was hurt or needed help and why he closed down when he was most vulnerable. He'd learned the hard way that to do otherwise was dangerous.

Peter had realized early in this investigation Neal had memories he didn't want to confront. After all, he'd had information that could have given him a free pass, and he hadn't said a word. The more Peter had learned about Terrence Eden, the more he understood why Neal had never spoken of him. Eden has used Neal, had used his insecurities, his need to belong and be appreciated, against him. That had been bad enough, enough of a hurdle to clear, but now Peter feared Neal had suffered even more under Eden's control. If what Agent Parker suggested had occurred, Peter didn't know how Neal could ever be expected to deal with it. No wonder Neal's way of dealing with his past had simply been not to.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Not sure where Neal would be by now, or where he needed to go for information, Peter simply stopped at the visitor's desk in the downstairs lobby when he arrived at Good Samaritan Medical Center.

"Neal Caffrey," he said when the volunteer greeted him. "He's a patient here. I was told there was a problem and that he was being sent into surgery. Where do I need to go?"

"Let me check," she replied, punching keys on the computer. It took only a second to pull up the needed information on the screen in front of her. "Are you Peter Burke?"

"Yes," he told her. "I'm Neal's emergency contact. They called me to come."

"Yes, sir," she said, picking up the phone. "Dr. Duvall asked that we call her when you arrived." Her words surprised him; had something terrible happened? Did the doctor want to be the one to break the news? A feeling of dread enclosed him. The same feeling he'd had when he'd popped the trunk of Eden's car and saw Neal, bloody and still, huddled there.

"Oh my god," Peter began, his mouth felt dry; his heart was pounding. "Is he...?" He couldn't finish the question. Neal couldn't die. Neal couldn't be _dead._

"Oh, no, Mr. Burke," the young lady said quickly, seeing his distress. "It's nothing like that." She assured him. "Mr. Caffrey just came out of surgery. He's in recovery now." Apparently, her call had been answered because her next words were not directed at him. "Mr. Burke is here in the lobby," she said into the receiver, an apologetic look still on her face. "Do you want to come down or shall I sent him to you?" There was a brief pause. "Yes, ma'am."

"Dr. Duvall said to send you up to the fourth floor," she informed him, replacing the phone on its cradle. "That's where Mr. Caffrey will be once he's out of recovery. Just take the B elevator," she instructed, gesturing towards the hallway in which the elevators were located, "and follow the signs to the ICU Waiting Room. She will meet you there."

To say he was relieved was an understatement; he made his way down the hall towards the elevators on weakened knees. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the number four button. Back to the ICU Waiting Room. _Again_. But at least it wasn't the hospital morgue.

He was expecting to see a familiar face when he reached the ICU Waiting room, and he did. But it wasn't the one he'd expected.

Detective Strand was there. Leaning forward in his chair with a drawn expression, he sprang to his feet when he saw Peter. The two men approached one another, both had questions, and both spoke at the same time.

"What are-?" Peter began.

"How's Neal?" Worry was stamped in the lines of the man's face.

"I don't know," Peter replied, "I just got here. All I know is that he had some internal bleeding and they had to do surgery. They said he's in recovery now." He glanced around the room. "His doctor is supposed to meet me here. What are you doing here?" He asked, still shocked at the man's presence. "I saw Agent Parker at the office more than an hour ago."

"That son of a bitch," the older man growled, anger replacing concern. "He wouldn't even stay long enough to see that the kid was alright. Said he had to _get back._ I told him to go on and I'd find my own way back to the hotel."

It didn't surprise Peter that Agent Parker had shown little concern for Neal's well-being. Equally, it didn't surprise him that Detective Strand had.

"I just wanted to see him before I left," the man told him. "You know, make sure he was okay and tell him I was sorry about..." He stopped. "Anyway," he redirected, "He'd gotten sick, and I was waiting for them to get him cleaned up. But then there was some kind of problem," he explained. "People were running all over the place, taking equipment and stuff in there." He shook his head. "No one would tell me anything, cited something about HIPAA regulations. A little while after that, they rolled him out of there in a hurry. Went right by me. He looked bad."

"Agent Burke?" Dr. Duvall was at Peter's side; he'd been so tied up with the detective's account of events that he hadn't noticed her arrival. "I'd like to talk to you." She eyed the detective, her expression less than amiable. "Privately," she added.

Peter gave the detective his best _I'll let you know look_ and followed the doctor. She stopped once they'd reached the far end of the room.

"How's Neal?" he echoed Strand's question to him once she turned to face him.

"Who's asking?" she retorted. "His friend or his FBI _handler_?"

Peter was surprised by her tone; she'd practically spit the term. She was displeased and he understood why. Like he, she blamed Neal's setback on Agent Parker and Detective Strand's morning visit. Peter knew the agent, and not the detective, had been the culprit but Dr. Duvall didn't know that. In her eyes, the older man was equally guilty and apparently, since he was Neal's handler, so was he.

Guilt by association.

"I happen to be _both,_ " he told her testily. "Can you please tell me how he is?"

"I'm sorry. " She didn't sound sorry, "I know you're just doing your job, but agents questioning Mr. Caffrey, keeping him in a constant state of physical and emotional stress, is making _my_ job much more difficult. Not to mention the armed _officer_ standing outside the recovery room." Her eyes flashed. "Do you really think he is going to jump up, rip out his ventilator and sprint out the door?"

So that was where the officer was. Peter had wondered. "Of course not," Peter replied. "It's just procedure. Neal's release agreement stipulates he has to have 24-hour supervision. That means either the anklet has to be in place or..."

"He has to have someone with him," she finished. "I know. The officer was kind enough to explain it to me." She took a breath, visibly trying to calm herself. As Peter had noticed, Neal brought out a protective streak in most females and Dr. Duvall was not an exception. "As I said," she began, her tone less passionate and more professional. "I understand you are just doing your job. Mr. Caffrey is in recovery," she informed him. "The surgery was successful, and Dr. Allison was able to stop the bleeding in his lung. He should be moved here to the ICU in the next half hour or so."

"What exactly happened?" Peter asked.

"He suffered a pulmonary hemorrhage," she told him, "shortly after being questioned," she glanced in Detective Strand's direction "by your agents. He'd started vomiting," she explained, "and the nurse was called. While she was examining Mr. Caffrey, he started coughing up blood and experiencing respiratory distress. His oxygen levels dropped; he lost consciousness and had to be intubated. We attempted to control the bleed non-surgically but had little success. Dr. Allison was called in, and Mr. Caffrey was taken into surgery."

Detective Strand had said Neal looked bad when they rolled him out. Unconscious and intubated, Peter imagined bad was an understatement. "When can I see him?"

"The hospital discourages visits to the ICU," she replied cooly. "After all, patients there are in serious condition; they're more susceptible to infections and _need their rest._ Only friends and family are allowed back, Agent Burke, and even then, for no longer than fifteen minutes every two hours."

She'd cited ICU Visitor Policy verbatim; Peter knew because it was posted on the wall not five feet away. This policy had been ignored when Dr. Duvall and the medical staff believed his presence was beneficial to their patient, but apparently, that opinion had changed. She now seemed intent on keeping him from seeing Neal at all.

"They're not _my_ agents," Peter said abruptly, her words finally registering. She thought Parker and Strand worked for him; that he'd sent them to question Neal. He nodded in Detective Strand's direction. "Strand over there is a retired police detective and the other guy, Agent Parker; he's Violent Crimes out of the _Chicago_ office; they flew in yesterday because they think Neal has information about an old case. They don't work for _me_ ," he insisted, "or even _with_ me. In fact, before yesterday, I'd never seen either one before in my life."

She looked doubtful, but after a moment, her features softened. "Well, that's good to know," she confessed. "I was afraid it was some kind of good cop, bad cop thing you were playing. Or," she said, "in your case, _good_ agent, bad agent. At least that guy, the detective, seems concerned about Mr. Caffrey's condition. From what I was told, the other guy couldn't have cared less."

Peter felt anger as he remembered the agent's comments about Neal, his complete indifference. "Agent Parker is a ..." Peter stopped himself, knowing the descriptive term that had sprung to mind was inappropriate. He and Detective Strand had the same opinion on Parker, and he imagined Dr. Duvall did as well, but being a lady, she'd never say it. "Let's just say I'm not a fan, either." He met her eyes. "Neal doesn't have a family, Dr. Duvall, but he has friends. And I _am_ one of them."

She studied him, a questioning look on her face. "He told me you were his handler."

Peter had been curious as to where she'd heard that term, and now he knew; Neal had told her. He wondered when that conversation had taken place and if it, in tandem with the fiasco this morning, had diminished Dr. Duvall's opinion of him. "As I said, I'm both."

"I'm not sure that's possible, Agent Burke," she said with a sigh. "Seems to me that puts you at cross purposes, and Mr. Caffrey in a very precarious position." She nodded across the room. "Have a seat with the Detective over there, and I'll let you know when you can go back. _You,_ " she added, "as his _friend._ Not as his _handler._ Do you understand?"

"Absolutely."


	58. Chapter 58

_So sorry for such a long delay! In the past ten days, I have had a child graduate from college, a child graduate from high school, and a child get married. On top of that, I've celebrated a wedding anniversary and launched a new exhibit at the Museum. To say I've been busy is an understatement. Thank you for your patience._

 _I didn't quite get to where I wanted to in this chapter, but hopefully, it lets you know I'm still here. The next update won't take so long, I promise! Thank you for reading, posting reviews, and most of all, for encouragement._

 **Chapter Fifty-Eight**

"Well?" Detective Strand asked when Peter returned. He'd been standing, his eyes fixed on Peter and the Doctor since they'd walked away. "What did she say? How is he?"

"She said the doctor was able to stop the bleeding," he informed the man quickly, taking his phone from his pocket. He had calls to make. "He's in recovery and will be moved here to the ICU soon. Excuse me for a second," he said, dialing the phone. "I need to make a couple of calls."

There were three, to be precise. His first call was to Elizabeth, assuring her that Neal had come through surgery and that's he'd keep her apprised of any developments. She wanted to come, but he convinced her to wait. With the new, enforced visiting hours, he wasn't sure she'd get to see Neal anyway. He followed that call with one to Agent Hughes, who promised to relay the news to the other members of his team, and finished up with Agent Littleton.

"He's got people that care about him," the detective commented as Peter finished his promised calls, at least the first round of them, and pocketed his phone. "That's good."

The detective had been close enough to hear his conversations, so a recap of his exchange with Dr. Duvall was unnecessary. Peter motioned to the nearby chairs, and both he and the detective took a seat.

"Yes he does," Peter replied in response to the man's observation. "I'm just not sure he realizes that." He looked at the detectiv e. "And you seem to be one of them," he observed. "Why is that?" he asked in curiosity. "You don't even know him."

"Feels like I do," the detective shrugged, looking towards the closed double doors that led to the ICU. "I guess I've thought a lot about him over the years." He looked back at Peter. "I'm just glad to find him alive."

"Yeah," Peter said, recalling the reports he'd read. "The FBI thought Eden had killed him."

"Well, no one could find him," the detective told him. "He was just gone, without a trace. And it wouldn't have been the first time Eden was suspected of making someone disappear."

He went on to tell Peter how he'd tried to find the mysterious, disappearing boy, or even someone who knew him but never had any success. The boy was never arrested, picked up by Child Protective Services, or sent to juvie. He had simply vanished.

Peter had read, or heard, most of it before, but he let the man talk. There was something he hadn't known, something that hadn't been included in the reports, and that was the lengths the detective had gone to in hopes of finding closure.

"Every morgue in the city had my number," Strand told him, "and anytime they got a body that even vaguely matched the description I'd given them, they'd call me." His brow creased with the memory. "You have no idea how many times I stood there as they rolled some poor kid out for me to look at. Drug overdoses, shootings, stabbings," he paused. "But it was never him."

"That had to have been hard." Peter knew every job in law enforcement was difficult, but anytime you had to see a dead kid...that went beyond difficult. And yet this man had done it, time and time again, in his determination to find the missing boy. To find Neal.

"It was," the older man admitted. "After three or four years of that, I realized I'd probably never know what happened to him. Still, I went every time a new body turned up. Then when I retired, I had to stop." His tone was apologetic, and his eyes held regret, almost as if he'd somehow let the boy down. "I just couldn't do it anymore. But I made sure they had my name in the files, just in case anything ever turned up. And then, out of nowhere, something did. I got the call."

"The missing boy had finally been found."

"Yes, after all this time," he responded. leaning forward, "and not a body or remains but a living breathing person." Peter could see the relief in his eyes. "When they showed me the photo of your CI, I couldn't believe it. He was the boy I remembered."

"But you wanted to see him for yourself. In person."

"I had to," he explained. "After all those years of looking for him? I had to see him _alive_. And when I walked in his room this morning and saw him sitting there," he shook his head in wonder. "He didn't look that much _different_ to me. I've changed a lot, aged a lot, but he looks almost the same."

Peter wasn't sure how much of the man observation was real and how much was sentiment. Neal had always worn his age well, but now Peter suspected it was partly because he wasn't as old as he claimed to be.

"Well, I saw the photo they pulled from the CCTV camera at the precinct that day," Peter told him "His face was all bruised up just like it is now. That helps with the impression that he's not changed much."

"That's probably true," the detective admitted. "He'd was banged up when he came in. He moved funny, like it hurt to walk, and he held one of his arms still." He frowned, recalling the event. "Someone had beat him up. I thought that's why he was there," he paused, his frown deepening, "to report an _assault._ " His eyes met Peter's. "He told the desk sergeant he wanted to report a crime."

"But he didn't say anything about an assault," Peter had read the report. "He just left the letter."

"Yeah," the detective nodded. "I could tell he was rattled when he came back to my desk. I asked him what he wanted to tell me and he just stood there, looking at me. He looked scared so I told him I'd protect him, make sure he was safe, but he still wouldn't talk. He never said a word until he asked for something to drink. I went to get him something, and when I got back, he was gone."

Peter wondered why Neal hadn't dropped the letter in the mail. He'd questioned that from the beginning. It seemed an infinitely safer course of action. If it was a matter of making sure the letter got to its destination, he could have left it with the desk sergeant. But he hadn't. He'd said he had a crime to report and he'd agreed to talk to the detective. He must have intended to tell the detective something but for some reason, had changed his mind. He relayed his thoughts to Detective Strand.

"It was my fault," the detective confessed, eyes full of regret. "I should have been more patient; let him warm up a bit before I started pressing him." He gave a small shrug. "I'm not good at things that take..." he searched for the words, "You know, a _delicate touch_ ; I'm just too direct."

Peter understood where the man was coming from; he had the same problem. Elizabeth was constantly on him to do better, to be more sensitive to the feelings of others, but Peter just wasn't wired that way. Apparently, neither was Detective Strand.

"I asked him too much, too fast," the man continued. "I scared him off."

Peter was beginning to understand why Strand had been so obsessed with finding Neal. He'd blamed himself for his handling of the situation. In his mind, if the boy had run off and met his doom, it was his fault. Finding him alive had to have taken a heavy load off his conscious, but it currently didn't show on his face.

"Given the circumstances, it probably didn't take much," Peter tried to console, "As you said, he was rattled when he walked in and likely had second thoughts the minute he got back there."

"I know," the detective said, "but he was just a kid and needed help. He _wanted_ help," he insisted. "I could see it in his eyes. I thought he'd decided to open up to me, but when I got back, he was gone."

"Then you found the letter." Peter knew the story, or at least the written version, but he'd already picked up more by hearing it from the man himself. He could almost picture the young Danny, standing before the detective, too scared to say what he'd come to say.

The detective nodded. "It was bad enough when I thought he had a tough home life," he said, "some piece of crap father beating on him. But after I read the letter and realized what he was mixed up with," He shook his head. "I knew Eden's reputation, how he operated. We all did." He turned his gaze again to the ICU doors even though they weren't sure Neal was even behind them yet. "No wonder he was scared and running. Then, after hearing him today..." His sentence trailed off. He looked back at Peter, frown again deepening the lines in his face. "You said you saw Agent Parker. Did you talk to him?"

"Briefly," Peter said, his tone growing terse. "He gave me the basics of the conversation, but he's supposed to leave me a copy of his notes. Why?" he added.

"Did he tell you what happened? How our," he paused, " _visit_ ended?"

"He said Neal got sick," Peter replied, having a good idea where the conversation was heading, "and that hospital staff kicked you guys out."

"Yeah, but did he tell you _why_ he got sick?" the detective asked.

Peter had an idea of why Neal had gotten sick, but of course, Agent Parker hadn't made that connection; at least not until Peter pointed it out to him.

"He told me about the picture of Francis Douchant if that's what you're talking about," Peter said a bit uneasily. "He said Neal," he paused, " _reacted strongly_."

"That's an understatement," the man told him. "He got this...look on his face; I don't even know how to describe it." Peter had heard this before. "He was as white as a ghost, staring wide-eyed at that photo. It was like he was frozen or something. He finally snapped out of it but he was shaking all over, and then he was sick. I grabbed the trash can, held it for him, and told Parker to go get help."

It was the same thing he'd heard from Agent Parker. The only difference was that Strand relayed the event with concern and compassion for Neal; two things that had been blatantly missing from the agent's account.

"Did Neal say anything to you?" Peter asked. "About the picture?"

"No," the detective related. "He just said he was sorry and something about having trouble keeping his medicine down." The detective shook his head. "But it wasn't that, Agent Burke. It was the picture of Douchant. He knew the man. And I don't know what, but something traumatized him so badly that just seeing a picture of the man put him into a state of shock. That's what made him sick," he nodded towards the doors again. "That's why he ended up back in surgery. Because of Agent Parker and that damn picture."

Peter understood the sentiment; he'd felt the same way, but in all fairness, Agent Parker wasn't to blame. It was Eden and Maxwell, the men who'd nearly beaten Neal to death then stuffed him into the trunk of a car. It was their fault Neal was in the hospital, recovering from a second surgery.

The problem Peter had with Agent Parker wasn't that he'd talked to Neal or even that he'd shown him the photograph. After all, the man had no way of knowing Neal would react so badly. It was the way he'd behaved after seeing Neal's reaction for which there was no excuse. He knew Neal had been traumatized, even had an idea of how, but instead of being horrified that something so terrible could have happened, he'd seen it as a good thing. As an opportunity. Agent Parker wanted the commendations, the praise, that would come from closing an old case, of adding another set of charges to the already long list against Terrence Eden. The cost to Neal, in the agent's eyes, was irrelevant. That was where Peter had issues with the man. He didn't see Neal as a person, but just a means to an end.

"Well, he's not getting anywhere near Neal again," Peter vowed. "I will see to that."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Someone was speaking. The voice was distant, and Neal couldn't make out the words, but still, it disturbed his slumber. His sleep had been the best kind, deep and dreamless, with no cares or concerns. He tried to ignore the intrusion, to again slip back into that peaceful, dark place, but he couldn't. The voice was joined with another and Neal realized that something was very wrong.

He couldn't breathe; he was smothering. Panic seized him, obliterating the feeling of tranquility in one fell swoop. He gasped, trying to get air into his aching lungs but something was stopping him, something on his face, in his throat. He reached instinctively to remove it but couldn't complete the task. Not only could he not breathe, but he also couldn't move; his arms were restrained. He opened his eyes as panic morphed into terror, his shout sounding more like a dog's bark than a cry of alarm.

He didn't know where he was and the brightness of room kept him from taking in his surroundings. Something moved in front of him, blocking the light. He tensed in fear as a face appeared. It was a woman he'd never seen before. She leaned forward and placed her hand on his forehead, stilling his movements, but his eyes darted away from her face, trying to determine where he was and what was happening.

"Look at me, Neal," she said firmly. Her tone and the use of his name brought his eyes to hers. "Everything is okay; _you're_ okay."

He tried to protest, to tell her he was _not_ okay but the result was another strange, guttural sound, followed by gagging. Something was in his throat, choking him. His panic grew as he pulled against the restraints; he felt like he was suffocating.

"Calm down," she ordered him, catching his hand with her free one. "You've just come out of surgery, and you still have the ventilator in," she explained. "I know it's uncomfortable, but don't try to talk. Just relax, and we'll get it out as quickly as we can. You're in the _hospital,_ " she told him, searching his eyes for signs of comprehension. "You're _safe_ here. Do you understand?"

He didn't understand, and he didn't feel safe. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't _move._ But her words slowly sank in. Hospital. Ventilator. Surgery. An ID badge hung from a white jacket pocket just a few inches from his eyes. Understanding dawned on him, and he stopped struggling. He was in a hospital. Her face was kind. She was trying to help him, not hurt him. He reigned in his terror as best as he could and gave a small nod. Satisfied, she lifted her hand from his forehead then relinquished her grip on his wrist as well.

"I'm going to check blood from the arterial line in your wrist," she explained to him, "and if the oxygen level is sufficient, I will be able to remove the breathing tube. Just try to relax," she instructed once more, "and let the machine breathe for you." That was much easier said than done. He felt he was choking, not getting enough air. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak. He felt helpless. Everything was completely out of his control. He'd pushed down his panic but he could feel it bubbling back in full force.

There was a pause as she took the sample and another as she tested it. "Good," she said, almost to herself. Then, eyes finding his again, to him, "Your levels are great; let's get this tube out."

Neal was more than ready for that. She explained that there would be some temporary unpleasant sensations, but Neal paid little attention. All he wanted was for the thing to be gone. He couldn't think of any unpleasant sensation worse than that which he was currently experiencing. She gripped the tube firmly and told him to breathe out as hard as he could. As he did, she pulled, and finally, it was out. It was quick, but not quick enough to avoid the gagging reflect it triggered. Once the tube was removed, his gagging ceased, and he was able to breathe on his own terms.

"Untie me," he said after taking a few gulps of air into his lungs. That's what he said, but it didn't come out that way. His voice sounded strange, more like croaking than speaking, making his words unintelligible. His throat was dry and sore. Fortunately, words weren't necessary. She immediately began to unfasten him; first one wrist and then the other.

"This was for your own safety," she explained as she freed him from his tethers. "You were trying to pull out the ventilator tube before you were able to breathe on your own."

Once his hands were free Neal felt much calmer. The blanket covering him was removed then quickly replaced with a heated one. The warmth enveloped him, and he found himself drifting off in spite of the questions that had crept into his mind. _What had happened? What had gone wrong? Why was he in the hospital?_ He tried to think, to remember, but he couldn't corral his thoughts long enough to piece things together. Part of him wanted to know, but part didn't; part just wanted to go back to sleep.

"I need to see Peter," he managed to squeak out, his voice weak and spotty. Peter would know; he knew everything, even when Neal wished he didn't.

"You'll be moved to the ICU soon," she told him. "Once you're there, you'll be able to have visitors."

"I need to see _Peter,_ " he mumbled again, the struggle to keep his eyes open becoming more of a challenge. He tried to move his leg, to feel the weight of the anklet, but the signal from his mind to his leg was lost somewhere along the way; his foot stayed still. "Is he _here_?" Neal asked. He couldn't feel the device around his ankle; Peter had to be close.

"I'm not sure," she told him, "but I will have someone go check for you, okay? Sleep if you can," she urged him. "I'm sure you'll see your friend soon."

His _friend_. Was that what Peter was? Neal wasn't sure. Sometimes he felt like they were friends, especially when he was invited to the Burke's house for dinner, but at others, he was keenly aware he was more a responsibility than a friend. Mozzie warned him not to be fooled, not to mistake Stockholm's Syndrome for friendship. They could _never_ be friends, Mozzie had told him on numerous occasions, it was impossible. Peter was a Federal Agent and he was a criminal. That was the stark reality of the situation.

Neal knew Mozzie was right but still, hearing Peter referred to as his friend brought more warmth than the blanket covering him.

Darkness beckoned and, comforted by the nurses' words, Neal didn't try to resist it any longer.


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

 _Beep, Beep, Beep..._

It started out faint but grew steadily louder. As Neal became more aware, he began to feel mildly concerned. It sounded like an alarm, the kind that could be disarmed by typing the correct code into a keypad. It not only was increasing in volume but in frequency as well; a sign that the thirty-second window to enter the code was coming to a close. If it wasn't entered quickly, lights would flood the area, sirens would sound, and the police would be dispatched.

His concern transitioned into distress. Why was an alarm sounding? Why hadn't he entered a code? What _was_ the code?

His sluggish mind held no answers, but he felt a growing sense of urgency. If he couldn't disable the alarm he had to get away from the area; time was running out. He needed to move, but his body felt heavy, his limbs lead-filled. It took great effort just to open his eyes. When he did, he was surprised to find he wasn't operating under cover of darkness or even low light. The place he was in was bright, and he was not alone; someone stood over him. He again tried to move, to raise himself up, but his muscles had no strength.

"It's okay, Neal." A woman's face came into focus. She looked vaguely familiar; her face was kind, and her touch on his arm was gentle. "You're at Good Samaritan Medical Center," she explained. "We're here to help you. Try to relax."

His fear somewhat alleviated by her words, he glanced around the room. Another woman, wearing bright green scrubs, stood a few feet away. The woman who had spoken wore a white jacket. She'd said _Medical Center._ The beeping sound wasn't an alarm; it was medical equipment.

" _Hospital_ ," he mumbled to himself in relief. "Not an alarm..."

He hadn't bungled a job or forgotten a code; there was no code to enter. He didn't do that kind of thing anymore; he reminded himself. At least not often. He had a deal with the FBI; he used his skills to help solve crimes, not commit them. He worked with Peter, and Jones, and the lovely Diana. He liked his job even though it didn't pay well and he liked the people he worked with. Peter called him a valuable member of the team; that meant more to him than any amount of money.

"Are you experiencing any pain?" the woman asked, corralling his wandering thoughts and bringing him back to the issue at hand. "Shortness of breath?"

It took him a moment to switch gears and process her question. "No," he whispered weakly. "I don't think so. I'm just... _tired_."

"That is to be expected," she responded, placing a stethoscope on his chest. "You've been through a lot. Can you take a deep breath for me?"

Neal did as she asked; she repositioned the drum and repeated her request. "Very good," she said, pulling the earpieces from her ears. "Everything sounds good."

She said he'd been through a lot, but Neal had no memory of what that was. "What happened to me?"

Her pause was slight. "There was a hemorrhage in your lung," she told him, "but the surgeon was able to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. Right now, the only thing you need to worry about is _resting._ "

She'd given information but not an answer. He'd had a hemorrhage in his lung, which sounded serious, but what had caused it? Had an undercover operation gone wrong? Had he been stabbed? Shot? He searched his mind for answers. He had a fuzzy recollection of a meeting he'd arranged as Nick Halden. He was the fence and Peter was the buyer. There had been bearer bonds and ...

or was it _diamonds_?

He clearly remembered unfolding a small, black piece of cloth and counting uncut diamonds. There had been sixteen of them. He'd removed one and slipped into his pocket; the rest he folded back into the cloth.

His heart began to race; the beeping sound, which had slowed to a nice, steady pace, increased accordingly.

He'd given the diamonds to Terrence _Eden_. But how could that _be_?

 _"Mr. Caffrey?"_

It all came back in a series of sudden flashes. The kidnapping. His terror at realizing who had taken him. Being tied to a chair as Eden exacted his revenge. Standing at a sink, washing the crusted blood from his face and reminding himself that he wasn't Danny Brooks...

 _"What's wrong?"_

There had been schematics of the Danford Building spread out before him. The video of the young, blond-haired Andrew. Eden's threat not only to kill the boy but Mozzie and June as well if he refused to do as he was told...

" _Are you in pain?"_

He remembered his desperate attempt to get clues to Peter, removing a painting of a Botswanan Sunset and opening the safe behind it. He'd exited the building the way he'd been instructed, setting off an emergency door alarm. He'd crossed the street, rounded the corner and slipped into the back seat of the waiting car...

 _"Talk_ _to me; tell me what happening."_

Neal's heart pounded furiously as memories continued to assail him. His offer to help Eden sell the diamonds. His hope to buy time for Peter to find them. Then, learning from Mozzie that Peter wasn't coming to the meeting; that instead, it would be Marshals, not there to rescue him, but to arrest him...

 _ _"Neal?"_ the distant voice now sounded more urgent _._ _"Lorazepam, Ann..."__

Peter believed he was guilty. There was no hope for him, but there was still hope for the boy. But that too had fallen through. Eden discovered his duplicity and Neal had suffered the consequences. But one good thing had come from the brutal beating; he'd learned Peter hadn't abandoned him. Peter _was_ looking for him. He hadn't given up on him after all.

"Neal," he felt someone squeeze his hand. "Look at me."

The woman's face above him had seemed familiar before, but now a name came to mind. It was Dr. Duvall. He was in the hospital; she was his doctor.

"You're safe now," she told him firmly, "You're _okay_. But I need for you to _calm down."_

He and Andrew had been in the trunk of a car, heading away from the city and any chance of rescue but somehow Peter had found them.

He _was_ safe, and so was Andrew. Tears of relief flooded his eyes.

The lady in green scrubs appeared at his side, syringe in hand. "Doctor?"

"Hold on," the doctor instructed her quietly, keeping her eyes focused on his now tearful ones. "Give him a minute."

She began to speak to him in gentle, reassuring tones, encouraging him to take slow, easy breaths. She told him again he was safe, that he had been brought to Good Samaritan Medical Center and, although his injuries had been serious, he was expected to make a full recovery. She said the anxiety he was feeling was to be expected; he'd been through a traumatic experience and it would take time for him to feel safe again.

Tears spilled over and ran down his cheeks. Dr. Duvall seemed to take no notice; she just continued talking in the same quiet way. Neal closed his eyes, but the tears continued to slip beneath his lashes and trickle down his face. She said she knew he had questions, that there were probably gaps in his memory and things he didn't understand, but all that would be sorted out later. Right now, she told him, all he needed to know was that he was safe and that he was going to be okay. He had people who cared about him, people who would help him in the days and weeks to come...

"Where's Peter?" Neal whispered, opening his eyes. "Where did he go?" He remembered waking up before and Peter had been there.

"Agent Burke?" Dr. Duvall questioned. "He's outside in the waiting area."

"Can he come in here?" Neal asked her.

"If you would like for him to," she replied. "but remember, it's very important that you _rest._ "

"I'll rest better if he's with me," Neal mumbled, both his mind and tongue growing more sluggish.

Her pause was slight. "Ann, go find Peter Burke," she instructed as Neal's eyes began to close. "Tell him Mr. Caffrey would like to see him."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Peter Burke?"

Peter looked up at the young lady who'd spoken his name. "Yes?"

"Dr. Duvall asked that I come get you," she said. "Mr. Caffrey's asking for you."

Neal was awake and talking; that was a good sign. Peter immediately got to his feet to go but looked back at Detective Strand.

"Go on," the man insisted, sensing Peter's hesitancy. "That's what you've been waiting for. Don't worry about me."

"If you're going to be here," Peter began, "I'll come out and-"

"No," the detective shook his head, getting to his feet as well. "I have to go; I've got a plane to catch. I came out here to see him, and I did that; I stayed to make sure he was going to be okay, and now I know he will be." He extended his hand, which Peter took. "I'm glad he has someone looking out for him," the detective said as they shook hands. "I just wish I'd..." He left the rest unsaid.

"You tried," Peter replied, sensing the man's lingering regret. "That's all you could do."

"I know, but still, I can't help but wonder how things might have turned out for him if he'd had someone looking out for him back _then._ "

Peter had been wondering the same thing ever since he'd learned about Neal's past in Chicago. It had been much easier when he'd believed Neal had chosen a life of crime for the thrill, the sheer adventure of it. The realization that he'd been set on the path at such an early age, and under what circumstances, put everything Peter had previously thought about Neal in a different light.

"It wasn't your fault," he told the man. "Neal's..." he struggled for the correct words, " _hard_ to help." It was hard to help someone who wouldn't let you; hard to reach out to someone who refused to reach back. Peter knew from experience. He'd tried to be there for Neal after Kate died, but Neal hadn't let him. It was as if the more he hurt, the more he needed help, the less willing he was to accept it. Elizabeth had pointed out, given his experiences with Terrence Eden, that it was easy to understand why Neal had trust issues. "He doesn't let people in," Peter went on to say. "That's just how he is."

"Well, he's asking for you," the man replied. "That means _something_. You've got my number," he added, taking his jacket from the chair. "Let me know how he's doing if you don't mind."

"I'll do that," Peter assured him. "Thanks for sticking around; I'll tell him you did. And _why._ "

"Thanks." He nodded towards the ICU doors. "Go on," he encouraged. "He's waiting for you."

Peter was familiar with the layout of the ICU, having been there before. He knew which room held Neal the moment he saw the uniformed Suffern PD officer sitting outside the door. As he neared him, Dr. Duvall stepped out of the room.

"Agent Burke," she greeted when she saw him.

Hearing her, the officer quickly got to his feet. "Agent Burke, sir," he said nervously. "Officer Clark, Suffern Police Department." He seemed almost ready to salute.

Peter could tell he was a rookie, probably fresh out of the academy. That was why he'd drawn this duty. Insecure and eager to please, if Neal were able and wanted to, he'd have no problem getting past this kid. "At ease, Officer Clark," Peter dismissed a bit impatiently. The young officer returned to his post without a word.

"Can I see him?" he asked, nodding towards the door. He'd been told she'd sent for him but still, given her earlier reservations about allowing him back, he thought it best to tread lightly.

"Of course," she replied motioning for him to enter. She followed him inside.

He'd expected Neal to be conscious, but that wasn't the case; his eyes were closed. An oxygen mask covered his pale face, an IV was in his arm, and the usual wires attached him to several machines. But at least he wasn't strapped to the bed rails, struggling to get free the way he had been the first time Peter had seen him after surgery. And there was no tube draining fluid from his lungs, either.

"I thought he was asking for me," Peter remarked quietly. Neal's sleep seemed peaceful. Again, a far cry from the way he'd found him the first time.

"He was," Dr. Duvall answered, keeping her voice low as well. "But he's weak, Agent Burke, and he's sedated; he comes and goes. When he does wake," she informed him, "he's confused and sometimes quite anxious. So far, staff has been able to calm him, but he always asks for you."

Neal looked so young, so small in the large bed. _He's asking for you,_ Detective Strand had said, and _that means something._ It did mean something; it meant Neal trusted him.

"His anxiety," Peter began, eyes still fixed on Neal's sleeping face. "What's causing it? Is it the medication?" What he wanted to know was if there was a physical, or pharmaceutical reason for Neal's state of mind or if it were something else.

"That's part of it," she allowed. "All patients experience varying degrees of disorientation and anxiety after surgery, but as a rule, it subsides as they become more lucid."

Her tone suggested she didn't believe Neal was going to adhere to the rule. So typically Neal, Peter thought.

"I take it Neal's doesn't seem to be subsiding."

She paused before replying. "It's still early," she began, "but I _am_ concerned, given the trauma he's experienced, that his anxiety may _increase_ rather than decrease as his mind clears. Unchecked, that could be a problem; both Dr. Allison and I believe stress was a major factor in his setback."

Peter had blamed Agent Parker for Neal's setback, but he wasn't the only one at fault.

"I should have insisted the agents wait until after he was released to talk to him," Peter said. "I just thought..." Peter stopped his explanation. He'd known Neal wasn't up to it, physically or emotionally, but once Neal said he was willing to do it, Peter hadn't interfered or tried to talk him out of it. That was because he knew any off-putting could be viewed as reluctance, or worse yet, proof that he was allowing his friendship with Neal to interfere in the investigation. He hadn't been sure how things were going to play out, whether Agent Hughes would back them or not, and he hadn't wanted to give OPR any more ammunition. "They'll be no more questions," Peter assured her, "not until his stronger."

"While he's in here," she said, "we'll strongly be discouraging _any_ visitors other than friends and family."

"You've let me back here," he said with a small smile. "Does that mean you think I'm more his friend than his handler?"

"What I think really doesn't matter, Agent Burke," she replied. "it's what _he_ thinks. And he wants you with him."

As the one who'd pushed for Neal's release into FBI custody under his supervision, Peter had felt a heavy responsibility for his charge from the onset. But the weight of that responsibility had now increased tenfold. Keeping Neal in line or ensuring his safety on the job wasn't always the easiest task but at least it was straightforward. What he was facing now was anything but.

"Do you think he's going to be okay?" Peter asked her. "Not just physically, but, well..." He tapped his temple.

Although Neal didn't look it now, he was healthy. He was young, strong and fit. Physically, even if it took some time, he would recover from his injuries. Even now, the bruises on his face were beginning to fade. It was the damage that _couldn't_ be seen, the emotional wounds, that worried Peter most. Neal had fled Chicago and buried his past in self-defense; now that it had it had come back to haunt him, Peter wasn't sure how he was going to deal with it. He'd said once he wanted to go home and forget it but that wasn't going to be an option. There would be more interviews, trial preparations, and testimony. That didn't even count what Agent Parker may have in store if he decided to pursue more charges against Eden.

"I don't know, Agent Burke," the doctor answered honestly. "From the severity of his injuries and what you've said about the circumstances, as well as from my own observations, I believe he's struggling. Like I said before, talking to someone about his experiences _will_ help. Whether that _someone_ is you or a professional, it's something he needs to do if he wants to get past this in a healthy way."

Peter had known all along that ignoring it wouldn't work, but that was the standard Neal Caffrey approach to unpleasant feelings.

"I just don't think he'll do that," Peter said with equal honesty. "He's not much one for sharing his feelings." He watched Neal's chest rise and fall gently. "The man who took him, who did this to him, he's abused Neal before," he went on to explain, "in Chicago when Neal was just a kid."

The doctor's expression was one of shocked dismay. "No wonder he's struggling."

"I don't think he's ever told anyone about what happened to him." Except maybe Kate; Peter wasn't sure. "The situation he was in back then..." He felt his stomach churn at the thought of Francis Douchant. "It was bad. I think he tried to forget it, to pretend it didn't happen, but this has brought it all back. I want to help him but I don't know how. Especially if he shuts me out."

"You sound like that's what you're expecting," she ventured. "Have you had similar experiences with him before?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I have," he said. "When Neal's hurt, _really hurt,_ he withdraws. Not physically," he added, recalling Neal's behavior after Kate's death. "I mean he still comes to work, cracks jokes, and makes complaints about the coffee, but it's all show. He's only letting people see what he wants them to see. Not what's really going on."

"Sounds like what's called an Avoidant Coping Technique," she ventured. "Many victims of abuse develop it. It's when a person denies or minimizes what happens to them in an effort to lessen the pain they feel. Sometimes people even repress the memories altogether. It's a short time tactic to survive unbearable situations but in the long run, it never works. Eventually, these things catch up with you. That's what I'm afraid has happened to your friend."

"What do I do with that?" Peter asked her. "Once he gets to feeling like himself again, he's not going to want to talk about any of this. I know him; he's going to go straight back to that avoidance thing you talked about."

"There's no magic formula," she related. "No one thing to do or say that will suddenly fix this for him. As things start coming back to him, he's going to be upset, scared and maybe even angry. He'll need a familiar face, one he trusts and feels safe with. For whatever reason, that seems to be you, Agent Burke."

"Peter," he corrected quietly. After all, he was here as a friend and not a handler. "So what do you suggest I do?" A hint of frustration crept into his voice. "How do I help him get through this?"

Dr. Duvall retrieved a chair and positioned it near where he was standing, then motioned for him to sit. "For now, just be there for him," she answered. "That's where you start. Where it goes from there will be up to him."

 _Just be there for him,_ Peter thought as he sank into the chair. He'd heard that advice before, and he felt as unprepared now as he had then.


	60. Chapter 60

_Short, I know, but relatively quick given my latest track record. Decided I'll post as I write._

 **Chapter Sixty**

Neal slept as Dr. Duvall and Peter continued their conversation in low tones. Peter asked how long Neal would be in the ICU. She explained the latest setback had increased the chances of pneumonia, something they'd already been concerned about. There was also the possibility he might develop other secondary infections. He'd be closely monitored throughout the day as well as through the night to make sure any problems were met with prompt treatment. In the morning, she and Dr. Allison would evaluate his condition and make a decision as to whether he was ready to be moved back into a room.

"If he does okay," Peter asked, "and has no other... _setbacks_ , when do you think he'll be able to go home?"

"Best case?" she replied. "Sometime Thursday. Even then," she warned, "he's going to be weak; he'll still need someone with him." Her eyes left Peter's face and settled on Neal's. "If he has no one who can stay with him, we might need to consider a transitional care facility."

"That won't be necessary," Peter informed her. "He'll be staying with me." Dr. Duvall looked up, surprised by his proclamation. He shrugged. "My wife already has the guest room ready for him."

"You're going to let him stay in your home?" she asked doubtfully. "With your family?"

He'd had to tell her about the tracking device so she was aware Neal was a convicted felon. Hospitals had policies in place for dealing with suspects of violent crimes or for prisoners found guilty of committing them. For the safety of other patients as well as staff, most hospitals required the patient be restrained during the duration of their stay. It had been important that Dr. Duvall, as well as the hospital's administrator, know the nature of Neal's crimes; that he'd been convicted of bond forgery, not a violent crime, and posed no threat. Dr. Duvall had been excellent, promising that Neal would not be treated differently because of the anklet attached to his leg.

However, that being said, he was still a criminal, and sensible people didn't invite criminals to convalesce in their homes.

"Of course I am," Peter replied. "I told you, he's my friend. Elizabeth and I are as close to family as he's got."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Then I'm glad he has you looking out for him."

It was the second time he'd heard that today. Slight movement captured their attention; Neal was beginning to stir. A moment later his whole body jerked as if he'd been startled, and his eyes flew open. Dr. Duvall caught his hand as he instinctively tried to pull the mask from his face, a look of panic on his face.

"Neal," she said firmly. "Calm down." Neal continued to pull weakly against her grip. "You said you wanted me to get Peter, remember?"

Feeling it was time to earn his place in the room, Peter spoke up. "I'm here, Neal," he said. "Everything's okay, just relax."

Neal's struggle stopped at the sound of his voice and sluggish blue eyes shifted from Dr. Duvall's face to his. It seemed to take a moment for his words, or maybe even his face, to register in Neal's medicated brain.

"Where'd you go?" he asked, brows furrowing. "I woke up, and you were gone." His voice was barely audible.

Peter glanced up at the doctor. She'd said Neal's memory was spotty; he seemed to be missing a couple of days.

"I wasn't gone," Peter assured him. "I was just...I just stepped out a minute." He'd been going to say something about the surgery but elected to leave it out. They'd be time for all that later. "I'm sorry. I'm back now."

"Is he still in jail?" Neal whispered, fear creeping into his eyes again. "They didn't let him go, did they?"

Peter didn't have to ask who Neal was referring to. It was as if they had stepped back in time to when Neal had regained consciousness after his initial surgery; when he'd been terrified Eden was coming after him.

"They didn't let him go," Peter assured him, "and they're not going to; he'll be in prison the rest of his life."

Just like before, Neal wasn't easily convinced. His eyes remained doubtful. "Are you _sure_?"

"I'm sure," Peter told him. "You don't have to worry about him, Neal, I promise. He'll never come after you again."

His assurances seemed to work; Neal's brow smoothed and his body relaxed, his head sinking into the pillow. Dr. Duvall had said when he regained consciousness it wasn't for long and Peter could tell he was already starting to fade. His eyes, now absent of fear, had grown dull again.

"Will you stay with me?" Neal asked, repeating almost verbatim his earlier request.

The first request Peter had attributed to Danny, the open, less jaded version of Neal brought out by the ketamine. Neal would never have asked such a thing; his pride wouldn't have allowed it. There was no ketamine in his system now, but he was under the influence of a sedative which seemed to have a similar effect. Peter guessed, in some way, it had been Danny he'd met at the Howser Clinic. He just hadn't known it at the time.

"I'm here, Neal," he replied. "Just rest."

"But will you _stay_? Neal pressed, his eyes pleading. "Even if I sleep?"

Again, almost exactly what he'd asked him before. Peter's eyes met Dr. Duvall's; she gave a small nod of approval.

"I'll stay," Peter told him, "even if you sleep."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal mumbled in relief. "I feel better knowing you're here."

Reassured that Peter would remain by his side, Neal was asleep in less than half a minute.

"You did good, Agent Burke," Dr. Duvall commended. "That's what he's been needing; _reassurance_."

"He thinks this is that first day," he said. "He's mixing up this surgery with that one." Neal hadn't yet remembered all that had happened since. The statement with Agent Littleton; the meeting with Agent Parker.

"His confusion is typical," she told him, making adjustments to the IV lines. "It will lessen as we reduce his medication over the next several hours."

"You know I'm going to have to stay until then, don't you?" He'd promised Neal he'd stay and he intended to do just that.

"I think it's a good idea that you do," she replied, finishing her task. "It's important he rest, and like he said, he rests better when you're with him." She frowned at Neal's sleeping face. "All that you said about him being closed off," she ventured. "He doesn't seem closed off to me. At least, not to you."

"Don't be fooled by this," he warned hastily, indicating Neal's prone figure with a wave of his hand. "This is Neal with _diminished capacities_ ," he explained. "This is _not_ who he is; not when he's in his right mind."

"I disagree, Agent Burke," she said. "Medication may lower a person's defenses, but it doesn't change who they are. I think this is exactly who he is; it's just not who he _pretends_ to be."

He hadn't shared the fact that, in addition to being a forger, Neal was an accomplished con artist.

"Well, he's very good at pretending," Peter informed her. "He pretends he doesn't care when he does, that he's fine when he's not, that he..." he shook his head, letting his sentence trail off.

"Doesn't need people when he does?" Dr. Duvall offered.

Peter's eyes jumped immediately to her's. "Yeah."

That was it, the part about all this that bothered Peter the most. Everyone needed people in their lives, people to love and support them. But Neal had been taught early that the people he needed most were the most likely to hurt him.

Elizabeth had touched on it before; she'd said Neal had good reasons not to trust people, that everyone he'd gone to for help had exploited him or otherwise let him down. They'd used him, she'd said, all the while dangling what he wanted most in front of him to keep him motivated. Peter remembered the way his neck had burned with guilt at the realization that he, too, in some ways, had done the same thing.

The more Peter had learned about Neal's past, what he'd been through in Chicago, the more Elizabeth's words proved true.

Neal had needed a family but somehow ended up alone on the streets. He'd needed a home, a protector, and instead found himself working for an evil man who used any means necessary to control him. Whether it be praise or punishment, Terrence Eden knew Neal's weaknesses and how to exploit them. What Neal had endured before making his escape, Peter didn't dare contemplate.

"As I explained to you before," she reminded him. "That's a common coping mechanism for victims of abuse. They avoid relationships, minimize the severity of the abuse or, as you suspect in the case of Mr. Caffrey here, simply pretend it never happened. It's just the way he's learned to protect himself."

But there was no protecting himself from what was coming.

"That's not going to work anymore," Peter told her, the familiar feeling of dread creeping in. "At least not with this. He can't pretend this didn't happen; people _know_. And he can't ignore what happened to him before, either. There will be a trial, testimony. His prior relationship with his kidnapper _will_ be brought up."

Peter just prayed Agent Parker would do the right thing and not bring the suspected prior relationship with Francis Douchant into the mix.

"It will be difficult for him," she admitted, "but with support and the proper help, he can get through it."

"He's not going to accept help," Peter stated emphatically. "You saw how he reacted when you suggested he talk to someone; he won't do it."

"He may not accept it from me, or even from a therapist," she allowed. "But I think, given time and encouragement, he will accept it from you."

He couldn't imagine what that conversation, or series of conversations, would entail. It might be hard on Neal but it wouldn't be a picnic for him, either. He almost wished Neal _would_ speak with a professional; someone who knew the right thing to say and do.

"Do you really think so?" Neal looked so peaceful, so oblivious to his circumstances.

"He trusts you," she said, "and he feels safe with you; that is the key. Have a little faith, Agent Burke, in him and in yourself." She glanced at her watch. "I've got to go; I've got rounds to make." She looked up at him. "Did you have a chance to eat lunch before you got here?"

The topic rapidly switched, Peter shook his head. His plans for a Pepperoni Hero and a bag of chips had been derailed but he didn't feel in the least bit hungry. "No, I didn't," he said, "but I'm good. I'll get something later."

"I can have something brought up from the cafeteria if you'd like," she offered. "Foods pretty good."

"I know," he replied, "but I've got to call my wife anyway; I'll have her bring me something."

"Okay," she said, making her way to the door. "But if you change your mind, just let them know. I'll tell them to get you whatever you need."

"Thanks, but, doctor-" Dr. Duvall turned back, waiting for the rest of his statement. "Would it be okay if she came back," he asked. "Just for a minute?"

"Family is always welcome, Agent Burke," she said with a smile. "She can stay as long as she likes."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Having been cleared to use his phone in the ICU, as soon as the doctor left, Peter made his calls. The first was to Elizabeth; he filled her in on what had transpired, asked her to relay the information to Mozzie and June, and didn't discourage her offer to drive up. The second was to Agent Hughes. He updated him on Neal's condition as well, explaining that Neal wasn't likely to be released from the hospital before Thursday. He then requested the rest of the week off; he had the vacation days. Agent Hughes told him to take all the time he needed. Littleton was call number three and Donaldson at the Marshals Service was his final call.

The agent asked how Neal was and Peter ran through it all for the fourth time. After getting the update on Neal's condition, the agent told Peter the Marshal Service had opted to use personnel rather than electronics to monitor Neal. Suffren Police, the State Police, and the Marshal Service would all take rotations until Neal was released. After that, another anklet device would be requisitioned. Given that the last monitor had been cut free during a medical emergency, Peter understood their reluctance.

Calls behind him and Neal asleep, Peter settled into the recliner. It wasn't as comfortable as the first one had been, but then again, he wasn't as exhausted as he had been then either. The same young lady that had summoned him entered the room, moved to Neal's side and punched several numbers into the machine controlling his medication.

"He said he'd rest better if you were here," she commented. "And he seems to be doing just that. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you," Peter replied. "My wife's on her way. Dr. Duvall said she could come in here with me," he added. "That won't be a problem, will it?"

"Of course not," she smiled. "Dr. Duvall left word at the desk. Tell her to buzz in and tell them who she is, and they'll open the door."

Neal roused only once before Elizabeth arrived. Again, he woke with a start, eyes wide and fearful. Peter was at this side immediately, offering firm reassurance. Neal's' eyes registered relief, then gratitude, and then closed once more.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter Sixty-One**

"I know you told me," Elizabeth said, having moved to Neal's bedside, "but still..." She tore her eyes from Neal's face to meet Peter's eyes. "No wonder you don't want to leave him alone."

Neal had startled awake moments after Elizabeth had entered, more agitated than he had been the last time his eyes had opened. Peter had immediately been at his side, catching his hand en route to the mask that still graced his face, firmly reminding him again where he was and that he was safe. Within moments, his panic subsided, and after mumbling words of gratitude, Neal again was unconscious.

Peter had warned Elizabeth about Neal's state of mind but hearing about it and witnessing it first hand was two different things. Peter could tell it had upset her and he understood why. It still bothered him every time he the saw raw panic in Neal's eyes.

"Dr. Duvall says disorientation is common after surgery, El." He said, trying to downplay the incident. "His confusion will lessen as the day goes on."

"That wasn't confusion, Peter, it was _fear,"_ she corrected, her voice low with distress. "But he listened to you," she added, looking up from Neal's now peaceful face. "You knew exactly what to say to him."

He wasn't sure if the slight look of surprise was because he'd handled the situation well or simply that Neal had listened. Knowing both of them as she did, he guessed both were equally amazing to behold.

"Well Neal isn't himself right now," he remarked wryly, "so I doubt his _listening to me_ is something I'll have to get used to."

He'd tried to insert a little levity, but his efforts were in vain.

"I've never seen him like that before," she continued quietly, eyes again on Neal's sleeping face. "So scared, so _lost, so._..," she stopped and met Peter's eyes with new understanding. "But you have, haven't you?"

It was as if she'd suddenly realized how truly difficult the past few days had to have been.

"He's been doing better, but yes," Peter admitted. "Since Sunday I've seen a side to Neal I never expected to see. A side I doubt he ever _wanted_ me to see."

She nodded, her brows furrowing thoughtfully as her gaze returned to Neal's face.

"I guess I just met Danny, didn't I?" She asked after a moment's reflection. "The boy he tried to forget ever existed."

"Yeah," Peter said almost sadly. "I guess you did."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Neal," Elizabeth said abruptly, getting to her feet.

They'd been talking quietly for almost an hour. Peter had eaten the lunch Elizabeth had brought him; she'd told how she'd cleared her schedule for the rest of the week, and that she had the guest room ready. He knew she had questions about the case, about what was in store for Neal, but she didn't ask. Instead, she'd talked about things such as her latest demanding client and her friend's husband finding employment after seven months of looking. They'd seen very little of each other over the past month due to his workload and even less since Neal had disappeared four days ago. It was nice just to talk. Had they not been sitting in the ICU with Neal connected to various machines and monitors and unconscious, it would have felt almost normal.

Until now, their conversation had been interrupted only once when the young lady from earlier returned to replace Neal's oxygen mask with nasal tubes. Even as she'd made the change, moving Neal's head gently to place the tubes behind his ears, he hadn't awakened. She'd told them his medication dosage had been lowered and that now his sleep was more natural than drug induced. His body needed rest to heal, she added with a sympathetic look at Neal's still form, and he'd wake when he was ready.

Apparently, he was ready; his eyes were open. This time, both Peter and Elizabeth were at his side. Peter was relieved when Neal's eyes registered recognition without the precursor of anxiety and fear. They were weak but seemed more clear than they'd been before.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" Elizabeth asked him.

The quick look of uncertainty he sent in Peter's direction, followed by a slight blush on his cheeks told Peter Neal was at least somewhat lucid.

"Okay, I guess," His voice was hoarse. "Tired." His eyes again found Peter's. "How long have I been here?"

Peter didn't know if he meant the hospital in general or this particular ICU cubicle. He hadn't asked what had happened which told Peter at least some of the past day's events had come back to him.

"You were admitted to the hospital on Sunday," Peter told him, "after Eden and the others were arrested at the airfield." He watched Neal's reaction for a clue as to how much of his memory had returned. "This is Tuesday afternoon."

Neal's eyes darkened at Peter's words, but his delay in responding was slight. "The agent from Chicago was here," he said, the familiar look of distress creeping into his eyes. "Not Littleton but the other one."

"Agent Parker," Peter supplied, his distaste for the man coming through in his tone, "I know, Neal, he and Detective Strand talked to you this morning."

Neal became more distressed as the details of that talk became more clear. Although the volume on the monitor was turned down, Peter could see Neal's heart rate was starting to rise. He'd only been given one order by Dr. Duvall, to keep Neal calm. To that end, he placed a reassuring hand on Neal's shoulder.

"Don't worry about them, Neal," Peter told him, "They're gone, on their way back to Chicago." To stay, he hoped, at least in the case of Agent Parker. He'd be glad never to see or hear from that man again.

His words relieved the growing fear in Neal's eyes but not as completely as they had before. Doubt remained, a testament to Neal's returning senses.

"But I don't think he was done with me, Peter," he related in low tones. "He wanted-" he stopped, eyes meeting Peter's in alarm.

"It doesn't matter what he wanted," Peter said quickly, guessing Neal remembered how the meeting had ended. "He's not here, _I am_ ," he said firmly. "And I want you to rest so you can get better and we can go _home_."

Peter's attempt to divert Neal's thoughts to something less traumatic worked but didn't come out the way he'd intended. He knew even before he saw the look on Neal's face, not to mention Elizabeth's. Any points he'd earned with his bedside manner had just been taken away and then some.

With a look of dismay, Neal began to protest. "You don't have to stay-"

"Neal," Peter cut him off, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Elizabeth has the guest room ready for you; when I said _we,_ I meant _all of us."_

At his clarification, Neal's look of self-reproach changed to one of surprised confusion. _"_ _ _What?__ _"_

"You'll need someone with you for a few days," Elizabeth supplied. "until you regain your strength. So you're coming to our house." The small smile she sent his way told Peter he'd again won her approval. "The room's ready, and I've already taken off the-"

"You don't have to do that, Elizabeth," Neal interjected hastily, his look of contrition returning in full force. It didn't surprise Peter that Neal would oppose such an arrangement. "If I need anything I'll call, _I promise."_ He pleaded. "And June is right downstairs."

Neal's eyes found his, looking for assistance in his plight but there was none to be had. It had already been decided; he was coming to the Burke house, and that was final.

"Sorry Neal," Peter said with mock sympathy. "Doctor's orders. It's either our house for a few days or transitional care. And the food is much better at our house, I can assure you."

"I'll be fine on my own," he insisted, almost pleadingly. "really. There is no need for all the fuss."

Although Peter categorized Neal as an attention seeker, it was true only under very specific circumstances. He enjoyed praise and accolades or even grudging respect. What he didn't enjoy was any focus on anything he perceived as a flaw. He didn't like sympathy; he considered it pity. And pity was reserved for the weak, for victims, and as he'd burst out to Dr. Duvall, he was _not a victim._

"I know you'll __be__ fine, Neal," Elizabeth granted gently. "You're a survivor. But you've been hurt," Peter could tell by her expression and intonation she meant more than just physically, "and it's going to take _time_." She reached down and took his hand in hers. "You don't have to do this on your own, Neal; we want to help." It was her turn to plead. " _Let us_."

The hospital had cut back on Neal's medication, but the doctor had warned the effects of the Ketamine would stay with him several days. Nightmares. Mood swings. Emotional Instability. Add to that Elizabeth's gentle words, soft touch and kind eyes and Neal didn't stand much of a chance.

Her words brought sudden tears to his eyes. He'd been pretty much at the mercy of his emotions since he'd awakened two days ago, but he'd managed varying degrees of control since then. However considering his recent encounter with Agent Parker and Detective Strand, Peter wasn't surprised Neal was once more on shaky ground.

He tried to push them back, swallowing several times in rapid succession but they overflowed in spite of his efforts to stop them. Unable to find his voice, and with a look of defeat, he gave a small nod of acceptance.

"Good," Elizabeth said, wiping the tears from his cheek. "It's settled then. You're coming home with us."

It didn't surprise Peter that feeling overwhelmed, Neal closed his eyes. Tears continued to silently creep from beneath his eyelids for several minutes while Elizabeth offered soothing words of comfort and encouragement.

Peter was so glad she was here. He felt he'd done a pretty good job over the past days, but it had been emotionally draining. It didn't come to him naturally the way it did to Elizabeth. It wasn't long until Neal's tears stopped, his breathing became slow and steady, and he again was asleep.

Elizabeth met his eyes and Peter could see Neal wasn't the only one experiencing strong emotions. Witnessing Neal's fear had been upsetting to her but seeing his tears was even more disturbing. Her eyes were glassy with tears of her own.

"Oh Peter," she said as they spilled and trickled down her cheeks. "He's so heartbroken." She dropped her voice to just above a whisper, gaze shifting back to Neal's tear-dampened face. "Please tell me I wasn't lying when I told him everything was going to be okay."

Elizabeth knew Neal had been cleared of wrongdoing and charges against him had been dropped; she wasn't asking about legal repercussions. She was concerned with the emotional ones Terrence Eden's sudden and devasting appearance in his life had and would cause.

Peter was concerned, too, and he hadn't even told her about the disturbing information he'd gotten from Agent Parker before receiving the call from the hospital.

"You told him we'd help," he simply, "and that it was going to take time." How much, Peter didn't know. "You didn't lie."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The next time Neal was conscious it at the urging of Dr. Duvall. As promised, she had returned to check on Neal, and after a brief introduction, Elizabeth expressed her appreciation for making an exception to the visiting hours that had allowed both she and Peter to stay with Neal.

"The policy is in place for the benefit of the patient," she explained, "and as a doctor, I'm allowed to use my discretion. I've found at times the emotional needs of a patient are as important to recovery as the physical ones." She nodded towards Neal. "Given the circumstances of Mr. Caffrey's injuries and his emotionally compromised state, I believe having people he trusts with him is in his best interest."

Finished with the rationalization of her decision, she continued to the purpose of her visit. She first checked Neal's pulse, then his heart, then repositioned the stethoscope several times about his lungs, her face drawn as she intently listened. Neal slept through the entire process.

"Has he woke up any?" She asked with a frown.

"A couple of times," Peter told her. "But he doesn't stay awake long."

She acknowledged his reply with a nod and then spoke to Neal.

"Mr. Caffrey," she rubbed his arm. "Can you wake up for me?"

It took several requests, but Neal opened his eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" Dr. Duvall asked.

"My doctor." Neal's voice was faint.

"That's right," she encouraged. "Do you remember my name?"

"Abigal." There was a slight pause; Peter thought Neal must still be confused. But apparently not.

"Yes, it is; Dr. Abigal Duvall." The surprise in her voice told Peter her first name wasn't on her badge. "There was an incident this morning, Mr. Caffrey," she told him, getting back to business. "You had bleeding in the inferior lobe of your left lung; you had to undergo surgery."

It was Neal's turn to pause before answering. "I was...coughing up blood."

It had scared him; Peter could hear it in his voice. So did Elizabeth. He felt her squeeze his hand.

"Yes," Dr. Duvall acknowledged, "but Dr. Allision was able to repair the tear. I want to raise you up a bit and listen to your lung, okay?"

Neal gave an assenting nod, and the doctor pressed the button on the bed. Once he was in the desired position, she again donned the stethoscope and instructed him to take a deep breath. She repositioned the instrument and repeated the instructions several times.

"Any pain, Mr. Caffrey?" she asked, watching his expression closely. "Any discomfort when you take a deep breath?" Neal shook his head. "It's important you tell someone if you experience any pain," she instructed as she replaced the instrument in her pocket. "How about nausea? I know that's been a problem. How is your stomach feeling?"

"Okay, I guess," Neal answered. "How much longer do I have to stay here?"

"Here in the ICU? At least until morning," she told him. "Think you could eat some dinner?"

"I'm not really hungry," Neal stated. "But when can I go _home_?" He'd repeated that question like a broken record anytime he was lucid.

"As soon as we're sure your lung is healing properly and no secondary infections have occurred."

"Tomorrow?" Peter had to admire Neal's tenacity but doubted Dr. Duvall saw it as a positive trait. At least, not in this instance.

"Not very likely, Mr. Caffrey," she replied regretfully. "It'll probably be the following day. _Thursday_. But you know," she added, "how fast you go home depends on how well you do. If you can eat something and keep it down, that is a good start."

Neal seemed to ponder her words before answering. "I could try some Jello," Neal offered hesitantly. "Or maybe some soup and crackers?"

"I think both of those are excellent choices," Dr. Duvall said with a small smile. "I'll have someone bring them right in. What kind of soup would you like?"

"Chicken noodle?" Neal asked.

"Then chicken noodle it will be."

"Thanks, Abigal." Peter had admired Neal's tenacity; now he admired Dr. Duvall's finesse.

Neal wasn't the only one good at getting people to do what he wanted them to.


	62. Chapter 62

**Chapter Sixty-Two**

Dr. Duvall was true to her word; a bowl of soup, crackers and orange jello arrived within twenty minutes. Neal was true to his; he ate it.

It took some time, and he didn't seem to especially enjoy it, but since the doctor had suggested it was the first step to freedom, Neal approached it with grim determination. He said very little, eating his soup one spoonful after another, as Elizabeth rattled on about the arrangement's she made for his stay at the Burke house. She'd even had June bring a few of his personal items over from the apartment to make him feel more at home. Neal listened, occasionally making a comment or a nod of acknowledgment but for the most kept quiet. He didn't ask about the case or what other things Agent Parker had revealed about the meeting and of course, Peter didn't bring it up. Elizabeth didn't mention her earlier interaction with him, either, but Peter could tell Neal remembered it. He was withdrawn and quiet, hardly raising his eyes to meet either of the Burkes' and when he did, his expression was guarded. There was a marked difference from his previous demeanor. Elizabeth noticed it too, sending a questioning look in his direction. Peter gave a small shrug; Neal was again back to being Neal.

By the time his food was finished, Neal was exhausted. Sinking back against the pillow wearily, he thanked them for being there but urged them to go home. He would be fine, he assured them and would call for a ride once he knew when he would be released. At that point, however, Neal frowned as if something had occurred to him; Peter saw his left leg shift under the blanket.

"I guess you _can't_ go," Neal remarked, meeting Peter's eyes briefly. "When are they bringing another anklet?"

Peter remembered using the lack of an anklet to justify to Agent Hughes his refusal to leave Neal. He also remembered the pained look it had caused on Neal's face.

"Tha t's not why I'm here," Peter told him. He then relayed what Agent Donaldson had said, that the Marshal Service had elected to wait until he was released to replace it. He told him about Office Clark, too.

"It seemed a better solution than dealing with the anklet each time you went for an x-ray," Peter explained, trying to gauge how Neal felt about having a guard outside his door. The pale face and blue eyes gave no clue; the curtain Neal used to protect himself from the world was beginning to fall into place. It was sad but not surprising. "It's not a big deal," Peter assured him. "You know how the Marshal Service is about following protocol."

"Like you said before," Neal remarked with seeming indifference. "It could be worse; they could have just have sent me to the prison hospital to recover."

"They wouldn't do that, Neal," Peter responded firmly. Even if they'd tried Peter would have vehemently opposed such a move, and he was sure Agent Hughes would have weighed in as well. "All charges against you have been dropped; everyone knows what happened wasn't your fault."

There seemed to be a flash of anger in Neal's eyes, but it was quickly gone leaving his eyes once more unreadable. Peter wondered if he'd remembered the last time he'd been sent back prison; when Kate had died. That hadn't been his fault either, but he'd still been cuffed and taken away.

"Well since Officer Clark is at his post and Dr. Duvall is at hers, there is no reason for you two to hang around." He gave what Peter felt was an exaggerated yawn. "I'm going to get some rest," he said. "I suggest you guys go home and do the same."

"Okay," Elizabeth complied with some reluctance. "We'll go." She, like Peter, knew a dismissal when she heard it. She picked up her bag and removed the copy of the New York Times she'd brought for Peter. "I'll leave this here for you," she told him, placing it on the bedside table. "In case you want to look at it later." She hesitated a moment, then planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "Rest well, sweetie."

Color tinted Neal's cheeks just as it had earlier when Elizabeth had addressed him in a similar way. Few defenses could stand against Elizabeth Burke. His eyes softened.

"Thanks, Elizabeth," he said, his voice low. "Thank you _both,"_ he added, meeting Peter's eyes. The curtain may have fallen, but it wasn't yet firmly in place. "You know, for being here."

"That's what friends do, Neal," Peter replied. He hoped Neal would remember that over the next days, weeks and months. This wouldn't be a sprint; it would be a marathon. He hoped he was up to it. "See you tomorrow?"

"No need for you to drive up here if they aren't going to let me go," Neal said with a shake of his head. "I'll give you a call, okay?"

Just a few short hours ago, Neal had begged him to stay. Now he couldn't wait to get rid of him. This was what was coming; what he would be dealing with. A closed off, distant Neal who shut people out and kept them at arm's length. He'd been through this before. You couldn't help someone who would let you. He turned to go.

"You know my number." He hadn't meant to growl that way, to sound angry. He wasn't angry; he was _tired_. He felt Elizabeth's disapproving glare. Again, points lost.

"Yes, I do." Neal's tone prompted Peter to turn back; he was surprised to find a hint of a grin on the young man's face. " _All of them_ ," he continued. "Office, home, cell." There was a gleam of mischief in his eyes. " _Mastercard,_ A _merican Express_ -"

"Funny," Peter cut in sarcastically, unable to keep from smiling himself. "But my phone numbers are the _only_ numbers you better _ever_ use."

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The drive home was long and made longer by the fact that he was alone; Elizabeth was in her own car in front of him. It had been good to see Neal smile, to see mischief instead of hurt in his eyes. It was a sign that he was getting stronger, not just physically but mentally as well. That was good news; he had a hard road ahead of him, and he would need all the strength he could muster. It would take time to recover from his injuries, and he'd also have the whole Terrence Eden case to deal with. There would be the physical strain of giving interviews and depositions, but that wasn't the part that worried Peter. He was more concerned with how Neal would handle the emotional strain of facing his past day after day.

Dr. Duvall called Neal's way of dealing with trauma an avoidance coping technique, and over the years Neal had gotten very proficient at it. He was an exceptional actor; he could play almost any part convincing and just because he smiled, made jokes and appeared to be fine didn't mean he was. Neal had seemed fine at his trial. He'd appeared relaxed; unshaken even when the verdict, and then the sentence, had been read. Peter knew now it had been all been pretense. Neal _had_ been upset, scared even, but he'd hidden it so well Peter hadn't had a clue. He'd been less fooled by Neal's acting skills after Kate's death. Not because Neal was any less adept at disguising his feelings, but because Peter had gotten better at recognizing the subtle signs that betrayed them. Neal had said he was fine, but as Mozzie had observed at the time, no one bounced back that quickly; not even Neal Caffrey.

He had little doubt that Neal would make the same claim going forward. He'd already begun to deploy his defenses by feigning indifference, hiding his emotions behind cool blue eyes. Minimizing or even denying what had happened when he was young would not be far behind. Dr. Duvall said it was a tactic developed to help a person survive difficult situations but warned that, at some point, a person would have to face their demons. Traumatic experiences could only be ignored for so long; eventually, they caught up with a person.

He guessed that usually, it was just a figure of speech, but in Neal's case, it had been literal. Neal's demon not only had caught up with him, but it had also kidnapped him, drugged him, beaten him and forced him to commit a crime. Neal had gone to great lengths to distance himself from Chicago and the memories it held for him. But he had been kidnapped on Riverside Drive, held prisoner in the Bronx, forced to steal diamonds in Queens. There was no longer any distance between him and his past. It, too, had come to New York City.

Neal's physical state when he'd been pulled from the trunk still gave Peter chills, but his emotional state since had also been difficult to witness. As he'd told Elizabeth, he'd seen a side of Neal he'd never expected to see. Even the drug induced state at the Howser Clinic hadn't prepared Peter for a traumatized, disoriented and terrified Neal, looking to him for reassurance. Dr. Duvall called him emotionally compromised; all Peter knew was that Neal had been victimized enough and shouldn't be forced to talk about his past before he was ready. He deserved time to physically recover, to mentally regroup before being inundated with questions and Peter had been willing to buck the FBI from New York to Chicago to make sure he had it.

But he hadn't had to. Neal had agreed to give a statement to Agent Littleton, and then to meet with Agent Parker. In his statement to Agent Littleton, he'dl had given a factual account with little elaboration. He'd disclosed only the bare minimum about his past relationship with Eden. When he's spoken with Agent Parker, he'd used the information he'd read in the case file to sculpt a convincing story of how he came to leave the letter. In spite of his injuries, of the drugs still affecting his thoughts, he'd still managed to control the information he disclosed. He never revealed anything more than what was already known or if not known, what was _expected_.

His only misstep had been when Agent Parker had shown him the photo of Frances Douchant; he hadn't been prepared for that. His visceral reaction had Agent Parker convinced he had more than a just a passing familiarity with the man and the agent's theory as to why still caused Peter's stomach to turn. That the agent somehow saw it as a good development made Peter's blood boil. He'd used the phrase _sympathetic victim_ , but the man had no sympathy for Neal; all he was concerned with was furthering his own career. Chicago's Violent Crime Division had already made the decision not to pursue charges against Eden, and if necessary, Peter would enlist Agent Hughes help in making sure that decision held. There was no way he would let Agent Parker try to use Neal to make a name for himself. No way in hell.

Peter felt such rage, but it wasn't all directed at Agent Parker or even at what Neal had been through the past five days. It was about what had happened to him when he was a kid. What he knew about Neal's past was bad; what had been hinted at was even worse. He had to remind himself that whatever had happened, it had happened a long time ago and Neal had survived it. He'd escaped from Eden and not only that, he'd had the courage to leave the letter exposing the dirty business Eden had with Douchant. His actions had led to the rescue of dozens of victims, some of them children, and the eventual arrest and conviction of Francis Douchant. In spite of his situation, Neal had found a way to fight back, not only for himself but for others as well. He'd left Chicago, started over as Neal Caffrey and never looked back. That had been nearly a decade ago. Neal had gone many places, done many things and been many people since then. But one thing he'd never been, one thing Peter had never considered him to be, was a victim.

Neal was smart, sometimes too smart for his own good and he worked well under pressure. The more hopeless the situation seemed, the more determined he was to find a way to turn it to his advantage. Even after being kidnapped, beaten and forced to commit a crime, Neal still had managed to get messages to Peter. He'd named Eden as the man behind the crime, identified the true target, and alerted him to the plight of Andrew Carver. Somehow he'd even convinced Eden to let him broker the deal to sell the diamonds. He'd contacted Mozzie, again sending information to the authorities, in hopes of buying time and securing Andrew's release. When Eden discovered his duplicity, Neal had paid a terrible price but even while suffering life-threatening injuries, he'd been determined to get the Carver boy to safety. He'd told him how to escape the trunk and made him promise to try. Neal had been victimized, but he hadn't acted like a victim. He hadn't quit, and he hadn't given up.

Peter was just now learning about the horrors of Neal's past, but Neal had already lived through them. Although his way of coping might not have been ideal, it had worked for a long time. But Eden's return had brought back memories Neal had spent years trying to forget; Peter had seen evidence of it during those first few unguarded hours. Of course, as Neal became more lucid he'd regained some control over his emotions and Peter knew, as his condition improved, so would his ability not only to control them but to hide them completely. At least, he reminded himself, to the untrained eye.

No matter how good a job Neal did at pretending his past didn't affect him, that he and Danny were somehow different people, Peter knew the truth. What's more, Neal knew he knew. There would be tough days ahead as the Bureau and prosecutors prepared for the upcoming trial and Peter understood Neal would need to protect himself during that process. Otherwise, he'd never be able to get through it. But protecting himself and shutting out people who cared about him were two different things.

Neal was amazingly resilient; he'd learned to be. He'd survived Eden in Chicago, again here in New York and who knew what in between. Peter had no doubt he'd find a way to survive what lay ahead of him now as well. But it wasn't going to be easy. There would be emotional ramifications. Dr. Duvall had told Neal that asking for help could be the bravest thing he could do; Peter hoped he'd remember that in the coming months. He didn't expect Neal to suddenly open up about his past, but he did want him to realize that things were different now; not just because he was older and wiser but because he was no longer on his own. Whatever difficulties he had to face he didn't have to face them alone.

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Peter waited for a call from Neal all day. He'd waited throughout the morning, hoping Neal would call once he'd been moved to a room but the phone didn't ring. He'd also expected, at some point, a _'checking in'_ call that in truth was Neal trying to get news on the case. But that call didn't come either. Neal not calling to update him on his condition wasn't much of a surprise but not calling for to gather intel was. There were a lot of things in play. An improved Neal was bound to be thinking ahead, planning ahead, and to do that effectively he'd need information. It was the absence of that call that concerned Peter. He worried there had been a setback, that something had gone wrong and Neal hadn't been released from the ICU.

Elizabeth offered reassurance, telling him the hospital would have called had something gone wrong. Peter explained since Neal now was capable of making his own medical decisions, he would only be called in case of an emergency that rendered Neal unable to speak for himself. Peter was sure Neal had already been given mounds of paperwork to sign, included in which would be his Rights to Privacy and a Privacy Authorization Form to complete. Although the Department of Human Health and Services had originally excluded inmates, which technically Neal still was, from HIPAA's protection, its final regulations extended to them. There were exceptions of course, and correctional facilities could gain access to protected health information. But it took a court order or qualified subpoena and a judge would only issue those under very specific and limited circumstances. It would be Neal's choice as to who the hospital could call or give information to, and whether Neal had put his name on the form was yet to be determined. Of course, all he needed to know was if Neal been released from the ICU and even Privacy Rules allowed for the disclosure of that information. He called Good Samaritan Medical Center. Neal was in room 307 and his condition was listed as good. There apparently had been no further complications. Hopefully, that meant Neal would be released Thursday.

Neal finally made his call just after six. He told Peter that Dr. Duvall hadn't told him for certain that he'd be released until after his last battery of tests. But now it was official; he'd be discharged the following morning.

"I had a couple of visitors today," Neal said when they'd finished discussing the logistics of his release. "Andrew and his mother came by."

Peter wasn't surprised. He remembered the urgency, the distress in Andrew's voice as he rushed to tell Peter what he thought he needed to know. He'd been so worried about Neal's injuries, he'd not even noticed his own. "How's he doing?"

"His arm's broken and his mom said he has a minor concussion, but he's doing good," Neal answered. "He's a tough kid."

"Yes, he is," Peter agreed. "I talked to him right after he got out of the trunk. He had the 911 operator contact me; said you told him to call me."

"Yeah, he told me he talked to you," Neal sounded a bit uneasy. "Also said he'd talked to Jones. Once at the hospital and again at the office."

No wonder Neal hadn't called trying to get information. He probably knew more details about the case at this point than Peter did.

"Agent Littleton had White Collar take statements," Peter said. "Jones took Andrew's and I think Diana talked to Mrs. Carver. You know," Peter began, "you're not supposed to be-"

"Andrew's a big fan of the FBI," Neal continued as if he'd not heard the start of an admonition, "and especially of our office. His cast is the envy of his classmates. It has the signatures of Agent Clinton Jones, Agent Diana Berrigan, and even Section Chief Reese _Hughes."_

Peter chuckled both at Neal's evasive tactic as well as the fact Hughes had signed the boy's cast. "Did he get you to sign it, too?"

"Yes he did," Neal said proudly. "The only name missing now is yours. Once he gets that, he'll have the complete set."

"A complete set, huh?" Peter repeated good-naturedly. "Did you sign it _Agent Neal Caffrey?_ "

"Of course not." Peter could almost hear his grin. "Impersonating a federal agent is a crime."

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"She said this _morning_ ," Neal muttered irritably. He'd changed into the clothes Peter brought and put on an actual pair of shoes. He'd been pacing the room ever since. It had only been half an hour but it was the longest Peter had seen Neal upright in four days.

He looked at his watch. "Technically it's still morning." It was twenty minutes shy of noon.

Neal's improvement in just a day and a half was amazing. He was steady on his feet, his eyes were bright and except for the pallor of his skin and the slight discoloration along his cheekbone, he seemed almost back to normal. But Peter wasn't fooled; he'd seen the wince of pain when Neal had bent to put on his shoes. He'd had instinctively started forward to help but Neal's look stopped him in his tracks. Neal looked better and acted better but there was a reason he had to have someone with him for the next few days. He was better but he was still a long way from _well._

That point was hammered home ten minutes later when the nurse finally arrived to go over Neal's discharge information. Neal sat down on the edge of the bed and listened as she went over several pages of instructions in the quick, monotone manner of someone who'd repeated the same words dozens of times. She explained the post operative care for his incisions, then moved to instructions about using something called an incentive spirometer. Peter didn't know what that was but Neal seemed familiar with it. Deep breathing was very important after lung surgery, she stressed. It opened up the air sacs and prevented secretions that could lead to pneumonia. He was to use as the Spirometer as the Respiratory Therapist had shown him four times a day for two weeks.

She followed the instructions with a list of symptoms that would indicate complications had arisen. A cough that brings up bloody or rust-colored mucus. Chest pain that worsens when he coughed or inhaled. Fever or chills, blue lips or fingernails, shortness of breath or wheezing. She told Peter if Neal experienced any of these symptoms, he should, depending on the severity, either call the hospital or seek immediate medical attention.

Next, she explained what medications he'd be leaving with, what they were for and instructions for taking them. Antibiotic. Anti-nausea. Pain medication. She indicated the Drug Fact Sheet for each of them was included in his discharge paperwork and told him if he experienced any problems he should contact the hospital. There were no dietary restrictions but he shouldn't consume alcohol until he'd completed his medications. He was not be left alone, her eyes had gone to Peter during that part, or to drive or operate machinery until he'd seen Dr. Allison. His follow up was scheduled for next Thursday. She circled the date and time on the sheet as she relayed the information.

"Do either of you have any questions?" She asked.

Neal said _no ma'am_ ; Peter shook his head. The nurse then handed the clipboard to Neal, asking him to initial the top sheet to indicate he'd been informed of all the information. Neal did as she asked and handed it back.

"Okay," she said, handing Neal the stack of papers. "That's it. On the way out, have the orderly stop at the pharmacy; they'll have your medications ready. Then you're good to go. If either of you have questions later, or if there are any problems, don't hesitate to call." She looked at Peter. "You can go bring the car around if you'd like. Just pull under the awning."

Assuring them someone would be in straightaway to take Neal down, the nurse left them. Peter could tell Neal's energy level was ebbing. His lips were pursed and there was a growing look of discomfort on his face. The hour long ride back to Brooklyn would be tough on him. Peter could lean back the seat and Elizabeth had sent a pillow, but there was only so much comfort to be had in the Taurus.

"Maybe you should lay down until they get here," Peter suggested. "Rest while you wait."

Neal dismissed the idea with a quick shake of the head. "No, getting up and down hurts." Peter was surprised by the admission. "I'm better off just sitting here. Why don't you go get the car?" he said. "I'm sure Dave will see I'm safely delivered to you at the curb."

"Dave?" Peter repeated. "You mean _Officer Clark?_ " The young officer had again lept to his feet when Peter arrived.

"Yes, _Officer Clark,"_ Neal confirmed. "We talked yesterday when he was following me all over the hospital for tests. I guess you could say we kind of bonded."

"Exactly what did the two of you bond _over?_ " Other than a shared location, Peter had a hard time seeing anything else the two men had in common.

"You know, the lack of respect we get on the job." There was a playful glint in Neal's eyes. "How we're always given jobs no one else wants, sent to make copies or out to get coffee-"

"You love to go for coffee," Peter interjected. "In fact, you love anything that gets you away from your desk."

"Anything that gets me away from _Morgage Fraud_ files," Neal shot back. "You know, those things no one else _wants_?"

"Consider yourself lucky to have them," Peter returned. "Better behind a stack of Morgage Fraud files than behind _bars._ "

Their verbal sparring was cut short by the arrival of the orderly but now that Neal was on the mend, Peter knew there would be more to come.

The young man rolled the chair closer to where Neal sat, then bent and locked the wheels in place.

"Ready to go home?" he asked when his task was completed.

Neal didn't respond immediately and Peter expected he was about to correct the young man, to tell him he wasn't bound for home just yet. But he didn't. Instead, he met Peter's eyes. The playful look was gone, replaced by a more serious one.

"Yes, I am."

He said it like he meant it.


	63. Chapter 63

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

"We just have to be there if he needs us," Peter was saying, his voice low. "And see how things go."

Peter thought he was sleeping so Neal kept his eyes closed, his head resting on the pillow. Peter had handed it to him after the orderly had gotten him situated in the passenger seat, encouraging him to get as comfortable as he could. With afternoon traffic, it was likely to be a long drive back to Brooklyn. At first, Neal had protested, telling Peter he was fine, but as time dragged on, and Peter rattled on, he began to nod off. After jerking his head upright for the third time, he placed the pillow between his head and the window. Moments later, exhaustion and the hum of the car's engine put him to sleep.

He didn't know how long he'd dozed, but now he was awake. His side was hurting; he guessed the pain medication he'd taken after breakfast was starting to wear off. But he kept still, listening to a conversation he knew was about him. He hated the idea of staying at the Burke's. He already had caused Peter problems on his job, and now he was disrupting his home life as well. Hopefully, he could keep out of the way, rest and follow all instructions, and convince Peter that a few days of direct supervision would be plenty. With any luck, he'd have the anklet on and be back in his apartment by Monday.

"Dr. Duvall said the same thing," Peter continued after a brief pause, "but you have to remember; this is _Neal_ we're talking about."

Neal wondered what Dr. Duvall had said that Elizabeth was repeating? Obviously, it was something Peter didn't think he'd like.

Again there was silence as Peter listened to his wife. "Maybe so," Peter said, "but he's not going to want to talk about it, El, and if we push him he'll just close us out."

So that was it. Just like Dr. Duvall, Elizabeth thought he needed to _talk._ They weren't discussing his physical well-being; they were talking about something else.

Generally speaking, he loved to talk. Sometimes his mouth got him into trouble, but more often than not it got him out of it. He had what Mozzie called the gift of gab, and it was one of his most useful skills. When he used it, it was for a purpose; to achieve or accomplish, persuade or convince. It was to change an unfavorable situation or opinion into a more favorable one.

But there was no changing the past; not last week, last year or the last decade. He saw no benefit in discussing it, or how doing so could possibly help anything. He'd said as much to Dr. Duvall just this morning. Peter had been there the first time she'd suggested that he talk to someone about what had happened but not the second. She'd stressed it again after she'd been told about the nightmare that had awakened him in the wee hours of the morning. It was, of course, the same dream. One moment he was struggling to get free, begging for mercy he knew wouldn't come and the next, he was sitting upright with a CNA, the night nurse, and Office Dodd all staring at him. It had been humiliating. He'd mumbled an apology, assured them he was fine, then leaned back against his pillows. He'd immediately closed his eyes, shutting out the looks of concern and pity and pretended to go back to sleep. Thank goodness he'd left all the monitors behind in the ICU or his vitals on display would have betrayed him. He'd tried to control his breathing, but his heart had pounded furiously for several minutes. The return of the nightmare was another reason he'd rather have gone back to June's. In his apartment, if he woke with a shout, he doubted the sound would travel far enough in that big, old house to disturb anyone. He afraid that wouldn't be the case at the Burke's.

"I feel the same way," Peter said, "but he's going to be under enough pressure without us adding to it." Elizabeth must have voiced a protest. "I know it's not the same thing," Peter replied quickly, "but Neal's defenses will be at an all time high. I think the best thing to do is give him time. If he wants to talk, then we'll listen. But until then we have to respect his privacy."

Peter always pressed, always pressured, and never respected his privacy. In fact, he often insisted that since Neal was a criminal on work release, he had no privacy or any right to it. But his words to Elizabeth, words he thought were just between the two of them, showed he felt differently.

"I know he didn't," Peter said after a moment, "but I hope he's learned that I'm not just his handler, I'm his friend too and at the end of the day, I just want him to be okay." The words brought a lump to his throat; two days ago it would have probably brought him to tears.

Peter said he wasn't just his handler he was his friend, and whats more, Neal believed he meant it.

Neal's memory of the first hours at the hospital was spotty, but there was one consistent thing; Peter. Even when he couldn't tell the truth from dreams, he'd known as long as Peter was there he was safe. He'd been so out of it, so freaked out and unable to control his emotions. Peter hated that kind of thing. His idea of moral support was to slap you on the back and tell you to cowboy up. He'd have thought Peter would have made himself scarce, but he hadn't. He'd stayed right at his side.

Peter hadn't called the Marshal's Service when he realized the tracker had been tampered with and he hadn't stopped looking for him even after he'd been suspended. He'd warned him that the FBI knew about his past, and even though he suspected Neal had written the letter, he'd kept that information to himself.

Peter had always made it clear that although he might like him, he wasn't his friend. He was his handler. But those were not the acts of an FBI handler; they were the acts of a friend.

"About fifteen, twenty minutes." A pause. "I will." Another pause. "I love you, too."

Neal held his position even though he was growing more uncomfortable with each passing moment. He kept still and slowly counted until he was sure two full minutes had passed. Then he shifted in the seat. The slight groan that escaped his lips wasn't planned but was effective.

"You okay?" Peter asked with a quick glance in his direction.

"Yeah," Neal answered, moving the pillow from his shoulder and placing it on his lap. His voice was hoarse. "Just stiff. And _sore_."

"We're almost home," Peter told him, eyes back on the road. "El's got food for us so after you eat, go lie down and rest awhile. It's been a long ride."

 _We're almost home_. The phrase struck Neal, causing a rush of sudden emotion. He hadn't cried for almost two days, he reminded himself, and he wasn't going to start now. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat and managed to find his voice. "It's been a long _week_."

"Yes, it has," Peter agreed. "It's hard to believe its only been a week," he added after a moment. "It seems like it's been so much longer than that."

Neal remembered making a similar statement to Terrence Eden when he'd been asked about the two months he'd spent on the streets. He'd sat across from the man grateful to have been invited to be part of his crew. A crew Eden claimed was more like family. He'd wanted that so badly; a family, a home, a place to belong that he hadn't seen the man for what he was. He'd been a foolish, a naive kid, and he'd paid dearly for it. He was _still_ paying for it.

"Difficult situations often make it feel that way." He echoed Eden's reply.

"I guess that explains why those RPO meetings go six hours and the clock only show that two have passed," Peter remarked after a moment.

Though Neal had never directly been involved in the budget meetings with the Resource Planning Office, he was keenly aware of the stress they produced throughout the ranks. It was the one time of year he kept his head buried in files and didn't complain about how boring they were.

He appreciated Peter's attempt to lighten the mood. He appreciated a lot that Peter had done.

"And why two hours of reading Morgage Fraud Files feel like two weeks," he returned.

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Peter had to help him from the car into the house. To start with, he'd just been dizzy, and Peter had held his arm to steady him. But as they made their way to the house, Neal's legs had grown weaker and weaker, requiring more and more support. By the time Elizabeth opened the door, Peter had looped his arm under Neal's shoulder and grasped him firmly around the waist. Neal was hurting, exhausted, and could feel sweat beads forming on his forehead. Elizabeth's expression told him he looked as bad as he felt.

"I'm okay, Elizabeth," he said weakly, keenly aware Peter was bearing more of his weight than he was. "Just haven't gotten my strength back. That's all."

His assurances did nothing to curb her look of concern. "Help him into his room, Peter," Elizabeth directed, taking charge of the situation with a firm voice. "I'll bring in something for you to eat later, Neal," she told him. "Right now I think you need rest more than you need food."

Neal didn't argue; he had neither the strength nor the inclination. Peter helped him down the short hallway to the Burke Guest room. A moment later, he was eased down onto the edge of the bed. Peter didn't ask permission but instead bent and removed Neal's shoes. Again, Neal voiced no protest. Peter grabbed the pillow from the other side of the bed and placed it on top of the one closest to Neal, then encouraged him to lean back. Neal started to comply but was unable to raise his feet onto the bed; seeing his difficulty and look of discomfort, Peter lifted his feet and placed them on the bed.

Neal leaned back against the pillows, the realization of how weak he truly was settling in. Peter was right; as much as he'd insisted he'd have been fine at June's he'd have never made it up the stairs. Peter would have had to pick him up and carry him. He'd just barely made it to the Burke guest room.

"I'll go get your bag out of the car," Peter told him. "Be right back."

Elizabeth pulled the folded blanket across the bottom of the bed from beneath his feet. Neal recognized it immediately; it was his. The comforter was familiar as well; both had come from his apartment. Elizabeth saw his look of recognition.

"I hope you don't mind, Neal," she said, noting his look of recognition. "I had June bring a few thing over." She spread the blanket over him. "I know you'd rather be in your own place, but while you're here, I just want you to feel at home."

There that word was again. _Home._ He felt the threat of tears but, once again, he managed to overcome them. He wasn't sure how many more times he'd be able to do that; the more tired he grew, the harder it was to hold them back.

"Thanks, Elizabeth," he replied, hoping she would attribute his unsteady voice to physical weariness and not emotional weakness. "I appreciate the trouble you've gone to for me."

"It was no trouble at all," she dismissed, stepping over to the window. "I'm just glad you're safe, Neal." She pulled the curtains together, shutting out the sun of the afternoon then turned back to him. "And back where you belong."

The sincerity of her words, the room personalized with his things, the softness of the bed, the warmth of the blanket...it was almost too much for him to handle. The sound of the front door closing told him Peter had returned, and a moment later, he entered the room with Neal's bag in tow. He moved across the room and set the bag on the small upholstered chair near the closet.

"You can unpack later," he told Neal. "Do you need anything out of the bag?"

Neal shook his head and Peter placed the small pharmacy bag containing his prescriptions on the bedside table. "Is it time for any of these?"

The timing of Peter's return had been perfect, giving Neal a moment to regroup before trying to speak. He glanced at the small digital clock beside him. 1:45 pm. He'd taken his pain medicine just after breakfast, and although he was due another dose, he elected to pass. He wasn't hurting that bad, and he didn't want anything making him weepier than he already was.

"I think I'm good," he answered. "I'll just rest here awhile if that's okay." He didn't want to seem like he was rushing out, but the room was rather small and the two of them peering at him expectantly was making him feel a bit claustrophobic. Not to mention, the next time either one of them said something nice to him he was afraid he'd just dissolve into a puddle of tears.

"It's more than okay," Elizabeth replied, stepping out of the room and into the hallway. "but if you need anything, just give a shout."

Neal promised he would. Peter followed her out the door, clicking off the light off as he left and cast the room into shadow. He started to pull the door closed, the sliver of light from the hall growing thinner and thinner but stopped, opened it a bit wider and peered back at Neal.

"I want to say something to you," he began somewhat ominously, "and I want you to _hear_ me, okay?"

Neal wasn't sure if he was about to be warned against a future action or reprimanded for a past one; it could be either one. He tensed in anticipation. "Okay."

Neal could see that having made his proclamation, Peter was now hesitant about continuing. Peter was never hesitant; Neal's concern grew. Could it be something else? Had something happened with the case? Had things not gone as well as he'd thought with OPR? Was their partnership in danger?

Neal was just about to ask what was wrong when Peter found his voice.

"I know this has brought up a lot of painful stuff you'd rather not think about," he finally said, "much less discuss, but the next few weeks are going to be hard on you." It was a statement, not a question. "I know you're used to handling things on your own and I understand that, but don't do what you did when Kate died." Neal caught his breath; hearing Kate's name still struck like a knife through his heart. "Don't tell me you're fine when you're not, and if things get bad, if you feel yourself freaking out, talk to me; let me help. Don't go off and do something stupid. Please tell me you'll _remember_ that."

When Kate had died he'd shut everyone out. Mozzie tried to get him to talk about it; so did Peter. But he couldn't. All he could do was obsess about finding the person responsible and making them pay. When he thought he'd found him, he'd bought a gun, slipped out of the anklet and went after him. He'd wanted to kill Agent Fowler but Peter had found him and talked him out of it. Although he hadn't shot the man, he'd still broken the terms of his release agreement, not to mention several laws. When Diana had cuffed him, Neal was sure he was on his way back to prison. But he hadn't been; somehow, Peter found a way to keep that from happening.

He owed Peter. Not just for that, but for a lot of things. For taking him up on his offer to help him catch the Dutchman. For making him feel like a part of the team and not just a criminal on work release. For covering for him when he screwed up. For saving him from Eden. For staying at his side the past four days. For inviting him into his home and making him feel like he belonged there.

 _For being his friend._

Neal hoped the shadows of the room hid his tears. "I promise I'll try."


	64. Chapter 64

_Sorry for such a long delay. We moved our daughter to college this month so things have been pretty crazy._

 **Chapter Sixty-Four**

Peter said down at the table wearily. He'd seen more emotion out of Neal in the past few days than he'd witnessed in two years. Longer than that if you counted the time before he became his CI. There had been a marked improvement in Neal's physical condition as well as his emotional one. He'd been fine at the hospital, but the discomfort of the ride, coupled with exhaustion had worn him down. By the time they'd arrived, and Peter had gotten him to his room, Neal had looked on the verge of tears. Peter hated his words had pushed him over that edge, but he knew they had. He hadn't seen them; Neal's face was in the shadows, but he'd heard them in his voice.

 _I'll promise I'll try._

It wasn't a _yes, I will_ , but it was an honest response to his plea. It wasn't in Neal's nature to open up, to ask for help and a promise that he'd try meant Neal had heard him. He'd made similar statements at the hospital, reassuring Neal he wasn't alone and that he didn't have to face his demons on his own but Neal had been so out of it, he wasn't sure he'd remember. But now it had been said. Neal knew he was there if he needed him. It was out in the open; on the record. It was now up to Neal to decide whether to accept his help or not; to make wise choices or poor ones.

He hoped Neal hadn't already made a questionable one. The last few minutes not withstanding, Neal had been behaving more and more like his old self. Where, on the one hand, that was a good thing, on the other, it was cause for concern. Neal back to normal meant maneuvering and manipulating, plots and hidden agendas. On any given day Peter needed to stay vigilant, to trust but verify. Keeping Neal on the right track and out of trouble was an objective that both Peter the friend, and Agent Burke the handler, had in common. Neal returning to his usual habits meant he needed to do the same.

When he'd taken Neal's bag from the trunk, he'd heard the buzz of a phone on vibrate. He'd checked the side compartment and found a small, blue-gray flip phone. By the lack of bells and whistles, Peter guessed Mozzie had delivered more than flowers to Neal at the hospital. He opened it up. _One New Message_. Peter hesitated only a moment before clicking to read it.

"Have you talked to Mozzie lately?" he asked Elizabeth. She was in the kitchen, dishing out the lunch she'd prepared for the two of them.

"Not since Tuesday afternoon," she answered, bringing in two plates and setting them on the table. "Why?"

"Neal got a cryptic message from him on his phone," Peter explained as she stepped back into the kitchen to get their drinks.

"I thought Neal's phones were lost?" She replied, returning with two glasses of tea.

"Well Mozzie furnished him with a new one," he told her as she sat down opposite him. "He sent a message a while ago that said _Mission Accomplished_. God only knows what the two of them are up to."

"What did Neal say about it?"

"He didn't say anything," Peter replied. "I didn't tell him about it."

Elizabeth looked at him. "You didn't _tell_ him?" she repeated. "Did he know you had his phone?"

"He doesn't know I know he _has_ one," he informed her a bit smugly. "I found it in his bag."

Her look was one of mild amusement. "I thought you said you were going to respect his privacy."

"About the _past_ , El," Peter clarified. "About anything traumatic that happened that he doesn't want to talk about. Not his privacy _in general."_ He picked up his fork. _"_ Even monitored twenty-four hours a day he still gets into trouble; giving him actual privacy would be an invitation to disaster." He frowned at the colorful dish in front of him. "What _is_ this?"

"It's a new recipe," she told him, taking her fork in hand as well. "A twist on chicken salad. It's light and easy on the stomach," she smiled. "And Neal likes pasta."

"A twist, huh?" Peter remarked humorously, capturing a rotini on his fork. "Is this a sign of times to come?" he asked. "A week of rotini and Linguine?" Neal might like pasta, but he wasn't a big fan. It was fine as a side but hardly constituted a whole meal. He was more of a steak and potato guy.

"Well, I can't serve him deviled ham, Peter," she laughed. "I want to fix things I know he'll eat." Her smile faded as she glanced in the direction of the guest room. "He's so _thin,"_ she'd dropped her voice slightly. _"_ I bet he's lost ten pounds since all this happened."

Peter had realized the same thing when he'd helped Neal into the house. Neal had always been lean; his standard three-mile run each morning took care of that, but Elizabeth was right. He'd definitely dropped a few pounds during his ordeal.

"I'm sure you'll help him add a few of them back while he's here."

"I certainly plan to try," she said, taking a bite of her creation. Peter did the same; it wasn't bad. "So what do you think?" she asked after a moment.

"I think it's good," he told her, still chewing, "I especially like these almonds-"

"Not about the salad, Peter," she said impatiently, "about _Neal._ How do you think he's doing, really?"

"It's going to take time to get his strength back, but Dr. Duvall says he'll be okay." The look she gave him told him that wasn't what she was asking. He sighed. "I don't know, El," he admitted. "I'm not sure where he is with all this or how he's going to handle it. All I can do is keep an eye on him."

"And help him when you can?"

"And help when he'll _let_ me."

She thought it over, taking another bite of her lunch. She chewed thoughtfully. "Do you think he will?" She asked. "Let you help him?"

Even Elizabeth knew that was not in Neal's nature.

"He promised he'd try," he told her. "That's progress, at least."

"I guess that's all we can ask."

After they finished their lunch, they moved into the living room. He sank into the sofa, and Elizabeth sat down beside him.

"The last time we were sitting here," he remarked, leaning back against the soft cushions. "I was watching the game, and you were watching my computer."

"I remember," Elizabeth said, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder; it felt good on his tired muscles. Neal wasn't the only one who needed a nap. He hoped with Neal safely tucked into the guest room he'd finally get a good night's sleep. "It's hard to believe that was less than a week ago," she continued. "It seems like so much longer than that."

Her words were almost an echo of his own. It had, indeed, been a long week. He'd like to think the worst was behind them but he wasn't sure it was.

"I know," he answered, closing his eyes. "Difficult situations often make it feel that way."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The sound of his phone ringing woke Peter from a nap he'd not intended to take. He was on the sofa; the soft, crocheted throw that usually lived in his recliner spread over him. He didn't remember stretching out, but apparently he had. He righted himself, blinking sleep from his eyes. Neal was sitting at the dining room table and Elizabeth, having retrieved the phone from his jacket pocket, was bringing it to him. Peter checked his watch; Four-fifty. He'd been asleep over two hours.

"It's Reese," Elizabeth said, handing him the phone. Caller ID confirmed. _Hughes._

"Burke," Peter answered, getting to his feet.

"Where are you?" Hughes asked.

The last time a call from Hughes started with that question all hell had broken loose. "At home, sir, why?"

"Is Caffrey with you?"

The follow-up question did nothing to relieve Peter's unease. He felt a wave of dread, the message he'd seen on Neal's phone forefront in his mind. He met Neal's eyes. "He's right here, sir," he said tersely. "Is there a problem?"

Neal, already pale, grew more so and Elizabeth's brows furrowed in concern. When Hughes didn't immediately answer, Peter's scene of foreboding grew.

"Sorry about that, Peter," Hughes said after a moment, "I had to sign a report. No, there's no problem," he assured, "but I do have Caffrey's anklet. I told Agent Donaldson I'd drop it by your house this afternoon."

"I see," Peter said in relief, the tension draining from his body. He gave Elizabeth an encouraging nod. "That's fine, sir. We'll be here."

Peter ended the call, relieved it had been made for such an innocuous reason. Whatever mission Mozzie had been sent on, thus far, it seemed inconsequential.

He'd known a new anklet was on the way; he was just surprised by who was bringing it. He'd expected a call from Agent Donaldson with a follow-up visit either from the agent himself or a proxy. But Donaldson would have never asked a section chief to do such a menial task. Agent Hughes must have offered to deliver the anklet. Call ended, Peter moved across the room to the dining table.

"Agent Hughes is coming over," he announced, answering the questions on both Neal and Elizabeth's faces. He thought about letting Neal sweat a bit, to see if he could wheedle a confession out of him regarding the cryptic message from Mozzie, but decided against it. Dr. Duvall had warned that stress, or anything elevating Neal's heart rate and blood pressure, could lead to complications. In spite of Neal's almost impassive face, Peter knew the news of Hughes visit was doing both. "Relax, Neal," he added. "He's just bringing the new anklet over. That's all."

Peter saw the tightness in Neal's jaw lessen, but the concern in his eyes lingered. Peter knew Neal didn't think Agent Hughes liked him. Hughes was all business; he was not amused by Neal's witty repertoire and had zero patience for office shenanigans. There had been times when Neal had been on very thin ice with their section chief, and he was well aware of it.

"But shouldn't it be Agent Donaldson or someone else from his office?" Neal asked. "Why is Agent Hughes bringing it?"

Peter had an idea about that, but as he debated the wisdom of sharing it with Neal, Elizabeth spoke up.

"My guess is he's using it as an excuse to come by and see you," she said, getting right to the point. That, too, had been Peter's take on the situation. "He's been worried about you, Neal," she elaborated at Neal's look of confusion. "Just like the rest of us."

After a glimpse into Neal's past, Peter had found himself rethinking his former assessment of Neal Caffrey, and he imagined Agent Hughes had done the same. Each time Peter had called in to give an update on Neal's condition, he'd heard genuine concern in his boss's voice. Hughes cared more about Neal than he wanted to admit. He wanted to check on Neal but needed some other reason to stop by the Burke house and delivering the anklet provided one.

"I doubt it's that," Neal objected with a small shake of his head. "Agent Hughes doesn't even like me, Elizabeth, he only _tolerates_ me. He probably wants to strap the anklet on himself. Make sure I stay where I'm supposed to."

"Don't be fooled by that gruff exterior of his, Neal," she told him. "I'm sure he likes you just fine. He has an image to maintain, so how he feels, and what he chooses to show, are sometimes two different things."

Peter couldn't help himself. Elizabeth had served it up just right.

"Something I think you, of all people, should understand."


	65. Chapter 65

**Chapter Sixty-Four**

Neal knew Agent Hughes was coming, but he still felt his heart speed up when the man stepped through the door. In spite of Elizabeth's protest, he'd gotten to his feet when the doorbell rang and now stood by the table, a hand on the back of one of the dining room chairs to keep him steady. He's slept almost two hours but still felt exhausted. If he'd known Hughes would be dropping by, he'd have postponed the pain medicine regardless of how uncomfortable he was becoming. He felt ill equipped to deal with a visit from a man he knew didn't like him. Normally, he faced Hughes when he was well dressed and at his sharpest. Today, sadly, neither of those criteria applied.

"Peter," Agent Hughes greeted as he entered the room. "Elizabeth," he added at her approach.

"Reese," she replied warmly. "It's good to see you. How's Beth?"

"She's well, thank you," the older man smiled, the perpetual frown lines between his eyes diminishing. "Spending every minute with the boys now that Ann's moved back."

"She was out west, wasn't she?" Elizabeth asked. "Kansas?"

Hughes nodded. "Five years, but Jim finally got a transfer back to New York, so now our girl is home." There was joy in his eyes and his voice; something Neal had never seen before. He'd learned more about Agent Hughes in less than a minute than he had in almost two years at the office. Hughes had a family; he had a wife, daughter, grandchildren. He remembered the way Red's eyes had lit up when he talked about the _younguns,_ as he'd called them. Just the way Agent Hughes's eyes just had. Somehow, standing in the Burke's living room, he seemed like a different man than the one who stood on the catwalk and gave the dreaded two finger summons.

But only until his eyes found Neal; then he was again Agent Hughes. The frown lines returned to his brow and his smile faded. "Caffrey."

"Sir," Neal replied. He'd wanted Hughes to know he was on the mend, that his uselessness was only temporary and that he'd be back at his desk as soon as the doctor cleared him. But there was more to it than just that. A part of him wanted to see if Elizabeth's theory about Hughes motivation for the visit was true. It was for those reason's he'd chosen to stay but now, finding the man looking at him with a look of disdain, he wished he'd stayed in his room. He could feel his legs beginning to weaken, the fog of pain medication starting to settle in his thoughts. Worse still was the feeling that he'd intruded and ruined a moment between friends; between Peter, Elizabeth, and _Reese_. He felt out of place, awkward, and Hughes continued gaze only made him feel more so. He shifted uncomfortably and was relieved when Elizabeth spoke, diverting the man's attention in another direction.

"Please, sit down Reese," she said. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, moving towards the kitchen. "Soda? Tea?"

"No thank you," Agent Hughes replied. "I can't stay." He turned to Peter, removing the new anklet from his jacket pocket. "I just came by to leave Caffrey's new anklet," he explained. "Donaldson set the radius for two miles."

Peter's eyes met Neal's briefly before taking the device from his boss. "Thank you, sir."

Hughes then fished the key from his other pocket and handed it over as well. "He said to call when Caffrey was back in his apartment, and he'd do a reset." Neal found the man's eyes on him once more, his frown deepening. "When do you think that will be?"

Hughes disapproved of his being here and, given the rash of complaints that Peter's friendship was clouding his judgment, Neal understood why. Peter opening his home to him would only add fuel to the OPR fire, validate the allegations against him. He knew Hughes would have preferred he be placed in a Transitional Care facility during his recovery. Neal hadn't liked the arrangement either, albeit for different reasons, but he hadn't had much of a choice in the matter.

"Two, three days at the most," Neal told him, casting a hopeful glance in Peter's direction. That would put him back in his apartment by Monday and be the best thing for all concerned. Surely Peter could see that.

But, apparently, he did not.

"End of next _week_ , sir," Peter corrected, either oblivious to or just ignoring the disapproving look on his boss's face. " _If_ he follows the doctor's instructions _and_ they're no more complications." Both sets of eyes were now on him. "He sees his doctor a week from today," Peter continued. "We'll see what she says then."

Agent Hughes and Peter were looking directly at him yet discussing him as if he wasn't there, or more correctly as if his opinion on the subject was irrelevant. He opened his mouth to protest but then closed it. He wasn't up to this; he was barely on his feet, and even if he felt like launching into a debate on his basic rights as a human being, this was not the time. The federal marshals weren't the only ones who could send him to the prison ward to recover. Agent Hughes could make the same request. In fact, given the problems he'd caused the past year he was lucky Hughes hadn't already put an end to his work arrangement with the FBI. He knew the only reason he was still at White Collar was that Peter wanted him there. Hughes didn't respect Neal Caffrey, but he did respect Peter Burke.

The room blurred slightly before Neal's eyes. Fatigue and pain medication was starting to take a toll, and he mentally kicked himself again for not just staying in his room. Hughes said he couldn't stay and now that he'd accomplished his mission and delivered the anklet surely he'd leave. Neal now gripped the chair with both hands, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. He waited for Hughes to announce his departure.

But he didn't. The man just stood there, staring at him even more intently than before. His expression had shifted from disapproval to something else, but before Neal could qualify it, he felt Elizabeth's hand on his arm.

"Please Neal," she said, a look of concern on her face. "I think you need to sit down."

He couldn't argue; his legs were trembling as if he'd just run a marathon although he'd only been on his feet ten minutes. Better to sit down than fall down.

"I'm fine, Elizabeth, really," he said quietly, glancing at the others and seeing similar looks of concern on their faces. He started to pull the chair out from beneath the table. "It's just the-"

Again, his vision blurred and this time the room distorted and shifted in front of him, making him lose his balance. Elizabeth grabbed his arm to steady him and called out to Peter. Neal felt his legs turn to rubber and there was a loud buzzing in his ears. Unable to support his own weight, he started to sink to the floor. A moment later, Neal found himself hoisted up and supported not only by Peter but Agent Hughes as well.

"Sorry," Neal mumbled in utter humiliation. This was not what he'd envisioned. "I just need to sit down."

"You're white as a sheet, Neal, you need to _lie_ down," Elizabeth told him. "Help him back to his room, Peter."

"No," Neal shook his head. " _Please,_ " his voice held a hint of desperation. "The recliner," he nodded towards Peter's chair. "I'll be good right there."

"You sure?" Peter asked at his ear.

Peter was good at reading him even when he didn't want him to and this time Neal wasn't trying to hide his feelings. He needed to preserve some dignity. He turned his head and met Peter's eyes. " _Very._ "

Understanding his silent plea, Peter acknowledged with a nod. "Recliner, Reece," he echoed, and instead of traveling down the hallway, they crossed the room and deposited him in the recliner. Peter and Hughes stepped back and, joining with Elizabeth, surveyed him with worried faces.

It wasn't that he'd never seen Hughes worried before; the man lived in a constant state of stress. Whether caused by OPR, RPO, or a particularity tricky operation, his expression of concern was always mixed with a generous portion of frustration or irritation. However, this time was different. This time, his expression mirrored that of Peter and Elizabeth, two people Neal had come to believe genuinely cared about him even if they didn't approve of his life choices or always agree with his actions. That Hughes might fit in that category was almost impossible for him to believe.

"Are you having any trouble breathing?" Peter asked, his brows furrowed in concern. Neal shook his head. "Pain?" He pressed. "Shortness of breath?" Neal knew he was running down the list of symptoms that might indicate something serious was wrong.

"No," Neal muttered, grimacing slightly as adjusted his position. "Nothing like that." He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The room still wavered in front of him. He was starting to feel nauseous. "I'm just really dizzy; that's all."

Peter didn't look convinced. Nor for that matter, did Elizabeth or Hughes.

"Look, Neal," Peter began, his tone one Neal knew well. He was about to be warned not to do something Peter suspected he was thinking about doing. "I know the last thing you want is to go back to the hospital, but if you're having any of the symptoms Dr. Duvall warned you about, any tightness in your chest or pain when you breathe-"

"I'm _not,_ " Neal cut in sharply but realizing Peter had good reason for his suspicions, softened his tone. "Honestly," he continued, "I've learned my lesson." It was true; he'd not been truthful at the hospital and things had gone badly for him. He didn't remember much, but he did remember the terror he'd felt when he'd coughed up blood, then found himself unable to breathe. Pride or no pride, he didn't want a repeat of that. "I promise I won't say I'm fine if I'm not."

He realized immediately he'd inadvertently made the very proclamation Peter had tried to get from him earlier. Peter, of course, noticed as well and seized on it with equal rapidity.

"I'll hold you to that," he said in amusement. Neal knew Peter was giving the promise much wider applications than he'd intended.

"I mean about how I _feel,_ " Neal said, trying to define the statement more precisely. Again, his poor wording only made matters worse. " _Physically_ ," he clarified, his face flushing as Peter's amusement grew. "About any _medical_ symptoms."

"I know what you meant, Neal," Peter finally chuckled, letting him off the hook. "Relax. I'm just giving you a hard time." But beneath his laughter, some doubt lingered. "You sure you're okay?"

Neal met his eyes. He'd seen a whole new side of Peter over the past several days. Of course, Peter had seen a whole new side of him, too. "I'm sure."

"Need anything?" Neal started to say he was fine by default but stopped himself. A promise was a promise.

"Actually," he said hesitantly. "I wouldn't mind one of those nausea pills. It's not the food, Elizabeth," he added hastily. "The Chicken Salad was great, best thing I've eaten in a week. It's just being dizzy is making me feel a bit seasick."

"I'm glad you liked it," she said, sending Peter a look Neal didn't quite understand. "I'll get them for you."

"Well, I've got to go," Hughes announced before she could depart. "I've intruded long enough. It's always a pleasure, Elizabeth."

"You too, Reese," she replied with a smile. "Tell Beth I said hello."

"I will," he said before directing his attention once more to Neal. "Caffrey," he began, his face making a complete transformation from _off duty_ Hughes to _on duty_ Hughes. His eyes narrowed. "You do exactly what the doctor tells you, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

After a curt nod at his response, Hughes followed through on his announcement and moved across the room. Peter accompanied him. "Thanks for bringing the anklet by," he said when they reached the door.

"Not a problem," Hughes replied. "I was glad to do it and anyway," he added. "I wanted to see Neal."

Elizabeth was right; the trip hadn't just been to bring the tracking anklet. Hughes' expressions over the past several minutes, the way he'd just referred to him as Neal instead of the standard Caffrey made him think Elizabeth's theory about his motive for the visit might be true as well. The older man glanced at him, his brow furrowing before turning back to Peter. "I can't believe they released him," he said in low tones. "He looks like _hell._ "

The thought that Hughes might actually care about him as a person and not just an asset pleased him more than he knew it should. Seeking approval, wanting to fit in or belong somewhere was a weakness that, when indulged, had only led to pain and disappointment.

Except, just maybe, in the case of Peter Burke. If anything good had come of the nightmare of the past six days it was that he knew with certainty Peter was his friend. He'd wanted to believe it before, but there were always doubts. It was easy to think something was real when you desperately wanted it to be.

It wasn't something he liked to admit, in fact, he often vehemently denied it to Mozzie, but what Peter thought of him mattered. It had from the very beginning. At first, he'd the chalked it up to the challenge of winning the respect of a worthy adversary. Peter was smart, smarter than anyone Neal had run from before, and he kept him on his toes. Neal moved from city to city, from continent to continent but Agent Burke continued to pursue him. Jobs came and went, as did the people in his life, but Agent Burke remained constant. It wasn't long before Neal found himself enjoying the close calls, perhaps even subconsciously facilitating them. They not only gave him an adrenaline rush but also an opportunity to observe his adversary in action, to reach out with a taunt or even a thoughtful gesture. Neal wasn't sure why, but he liked interacting with Peter even though he knew it was risky.

He told himself it was for the thrill, just a part of the game of cat and mouse he and Peter were playing but as time passed, he knew it was more than that. He didn't just want Peter to be impressed with his exploits; he wanted him to _like_ him. It was pure foolishness; somehow, he'd fallen into an all to familiar trap. Peter Burke was a Federal Agent and he was a criminal. They may have mutual respect for each other's intelligence, but that was it. Agent Burke didn't want to be friends with him; he wanted to lock him up. And eventually, he'd done just that.

Once Neal was in prison he'd had no further contact with Peter. He sent the occasional card, note, or prison grade artwork, just to say hi, happy birthday or happy anniversary but there was never a response. There were no cards, calls or visits to check on him. Any illusion he'd had that somehow he and Peter had bonded during their three-year game of cat and mouse soon faded. He had to face the fact that in spite of his best efforts, he'd never been anything but a case to Agent Peter Burke. Now that the case was closed, that was it, the end of it. Or so Neal had thought.

Four years later, through a series of circumstances, some unforeseen and other orchestrated, Peter Burke had again become a fixture in his life. This time Neal wasn't running _from_ him, he was working _for_ him, but the arrangement was strictly business; they could never be friends. He was a criminal on work release, and Peter was his FBI handler. He'd learned his lesson the first time; he'd not be foolish enough to think he'd ever be anything more than that.

But over the past year and a half, working with Peter day after day, Neal began to think their dynamic had shifted. There were times he felt like more than just a criminal on work release; he felt like part of the team. And there were times when Peter treated him more like a partner than an asset to be managed. Peter had covered for him, had advocated for him when he could have sent him back to prison. Neal wanted to believe it was because Peter liked him, liked working with him but Mozzie reminded him there were other, more practical reasons to account for Peter's behavior. Neal did good work and keeping him on the White Collar team was a good career move. Seeing it for anything other than that would be a mistake. When the arrangement no longer benefited the FBI, when he became more a liability than an asset, Peter would cut his losses and walk away. He wasn't emotionally invested and Neal shouldn't be either.

But Neal had become a major liability when he'd stolen six million dollars in diamonds and Peter hadn't walked away. Instead, he'd risked his reputation, and his career, in defense of him. He'd broken rules, disobeyed orders and done everything in his power to save him, and then, after that, he'd been willing to risk it all again to protect him. Even Mozzie had approved of Peter's handling of the situation, reluctantly admitting he'd behaved less like an agent and more like a friend.

"Well, he's been _through_ hell, sir," Peter said as he opened the door for Agent Hughes. "and trust me, he looks a lot better now than he did a few days ago."

"I know he does." Neal again found himself the subject of Hughes' gaze. "I've seen the reports," he said thoughtfully. "We're lucky we got him back at all."

Elizabeth had been right; Hughes did care about him and not just as an FBI asset. Neal hoped the warm feeling he had wasn't translating into a blush.

"Yes, sir, we are," Peter agreed, following his bosses' gaze. "It could easily have gone the other way."

"But it didn't," Hughes said, turning his attention back to Peter and clapping him on the shoulder in a rare show of affection. "Thanks to you. You did good, Peter." He stepped out of the door. "See you Monday?"

"Yes, sir." A moment later, Hughes was gone.

Elizabeth's eyes twinkled in amusement as she handed him his medicine. "Told you so."


	66. Chapter 66

**Chapter Sixty-six**

Peter hesitated outside Neal's door, listening for any further sounds of distress. He'd heard a low cry a moment before, just as he'd reached the bottom of the stairs. Remembering the incident in the wee hours of the morning at the hospital, Peter had quickly moved to investigate. In the ICU, Neal had sat up and appeared to be conscious but hadn't been. His eyes had been wild, his fear palpable, and he would have sprung from the bed had Peter not been there to stop him.

Later Dr. Duvall had classified it not as just a nightmare, but a night _terror_ , explaining the differences in the two. She also said it was fairly common in cases of Ketamine overdose and warned that similar experiences could continue to disrupt Neal's sleep for several days. Fearing that was what was happening and hearing sounds of movement inside the room, Peter was about to enter when suddenly the door swung open, and he was face to face with Neal.

He wasn't sure who was the most surprised; he or Neal. Both of them jumped, then began speaking.

"I'm sorry I-"

"I was just-"

Having begun simultaneously, they stopped the same way. The light from the bathroom illuminated a thin sheen of sweat on Neal's face in spite of the coolness of the air, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles. Something had awakened him; whether it was pain or a nightmare, Peter didn't know. Realizing the truth was the only explanation for being caught hovering outside Neal's door, that's what Peter gave.

"I heard a noise," he said, purposely avoiding the term _cry_ , "and just wanted to see if you needed anything." It _was_ the truth, edited a bit in deference to Neal's pride.

"I'm sorry," Neal stammered, the flush on his cheeks telling Peter he knew exactly what noise it had been. "I don't need anything, really, I just-" Whatever he'd been about to say, he stopped short. "I'm fine, Peter," he said instead. "Just go back to bed."

Just like at the hospital, Neal's eyes plead with him to not ask him to explain, telling Peter it hadn't been physical pain that had disturbed him. It was something much more difficult for him to deal with. Something he hadn't wanted to talk about at the hospital and didn't seem to want to talk about now.

But he'd _almost_ said something before he caught himself, before self-regulation had kicked in. Maybe he _did_ want to talk, to open up about what had awakened him; maybe he just needed some encouragement.

"You just what?" Peter asked, offering a nudge. He thought for a second it had worked.

"I just-" Neal began but once more he hesitated, then finished in a rush. "...am sorry I woke you up."

Peter knew that wasn't what he'd had been going to say but he wasn't going to press any further. He'd come to help, to lessen discomfort, not to add to it. Plus, it _was_ three fifteen in the morning.

"You didn't wake me up," Peter told him "My _stomach_ did." He hoped a little levity would ease the tension. "I'm hungry."

"Oh," Neal replied. "Good." He didn't say anything more but didn't excuse himself or return to his room, either. Instead, he just stood there, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. Peter wasn't sure what he wanted or needed, but there seemed to be something keeping him standing there.

"I came down to raid the fridge," Peter offered, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. "Want to join me?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"There's still Chicken Salad in here," Peter commented moments later, surveying the contents of the fridge. "And some weird cauliflower soup El had for dinner. Wasn't bad but it didn't have much staying power."

The tension the unplanned rendezvous had caused seemed to be dissipating now that they'd moved into the kitchen. Neal had said he wasn't hungry but he'd still followed; now he was standing in the doorway, watching Peter's quest for sustenance.

"Hence the three am kitchen raid," Neal mused.

"Exactly," Peter replied. "I'm going for some of the leftover pot roast and potatoes from Wednesday," he looked back at Neal. "You slept through the soup and didn't eat much before that," he remarked. "You sure you don't want something?"

"I'm sure."

"Stomach still bothering you?" Peter asked with a frown.

"No," Neal shook his head. "I just don't have much of an appetite."

"I guess I can understand that," Peter said, removing the covered dish from the fridge and setting it on the counter. "But that isn't gonna work with Elizabeth." He took a bowl from the cabinet. "She's fully determined to put a few pounds on you while you're here. She's got the menu all planned out."

"I wish she wouldn't go to so much trouble." Peter could hear the unease in Neal's voice.

"She doesn't consider it trouble," he replied, transferring several large spoonfuls into the smaller bowl. "She loves to cook." He put it in the microwave, pressed the appropriate buttons and hit _start_. After returning the pot roast, Peter took out the pitcher of tea. "Want some?"

Neal nodded, and by the time the microwave buzzed, Peter had poured them both a glass. He handed one to Neal, and after grabbing a fork from the drawer took up his and exited the kitchen. Instead of stopping at the dining room, Peter opted for a more comfortable location and continued into the living room.

"You're just giving her an excuse to try out some new recipes," he said, sitting down in the chair closest to the sofa.

"That's nice of you to say," Neal had followed him and after placing his drink on the coffee table, slowly lowered himself onto the sofa. "But I know me being here is... _disrupting_ your lives." The wince on his face indicated movement was painful. "I think I'll be fine in a day or two," he went on. "There's no reason for me to be here a whole _week_."

Neal's wish to move up the timeline for his return to the apartment didn't surprise Peter at all. He hadn't been thrilled about coming in the first place, and Peter had known as soon as he started feeling better, he'd start pushing to go home. The _day or two_ statement told Peter even Neal knew he wasn't up to it yet; he was just laying the groundwork.

"You heard Agent Hughes," Peter said, spearing a potato on his fork. " _His_ orders are for you to follow doctor's orders."

"And I will follow them," Neal replied, as Peter took a bite. " _from my apartment."_

One Neal got an idea in his head it wasn't easy to dislodge. "Dr. Duvall said were to stay here until you see her next week," Peter told him, chewing. "End of story."

Of course, he knew Neal wouldn't let it go that easily; he never did. He'd have his say, adding a chapter or at the very least, an epilogue.

"Actually," Neal countered, true to form. "Dr. Duvall just said I shouldn't be _alone_ until I see her next week _."_ Neal was a master at finding wiggle room and this was no exception. _"_ And I won't be; June is there, and Janet."

Peter didn't immediately respond. Neal wasn't wrong, and once he was stronger, there wasn't any real reason he couldn't go home. June was as much a mother hen as Elizabeth.

"It's not that I don't appreciate you letting me stay here, _"_ Neal insisted, apparently concerned he'd somehow insulted the Burke's hospitality. "and everything you and Elizabeth have done to make me feel welcome." His voice became more strained. "I just want..." Emotion choked his words. "To go _home_ ," he managed to finish. "To sleep in my own bed." The light in the room was low; Peter hadn't turned on the lamp but he could see the desperation in Neal's eyes. "I need for things to..." he searched for the words "seem _normal_ again."

After what he'd been through, Peter could understand Neal's desire for normalcy. His world, his life, had been turned upside down and inside out. He'd been forced to remember, and in some ways relive, the worse times in his life. The physical injuries he'd suffered had been severe, but the doctor was confident Neal's body would heal. It would take time, but his recovery would be straightforward and measurable.

However, Peter knew recovering from the emotional damage was something else. It wasn't just about what Neal had endured the past week; it was also about what he'd endured years before as _Danny._ What he'd experienced at the hands of Eden was bad enough, but now there was reason to believe he might have been subjected to even more unimaginable abuse. The boy he'd been had never dealt with it; he'd simply ran from it. The forced reunion with Terrence Eden had brought it all back and then multiplied it. It was that pain, that fear, Peter had seen in the hours after he'd pulled Neal from the trunk of Eden's car.

Dr. Duvall was certain Neal wouldn't be able to work through things on his own, at least not in a healthy way, and she wasn't even aware of the magnitude of the issues he might be dealing with. She'd suggested he talk to a professional, but Neal had quickly shut that down. In absence of that, she'd said, a friend would have to do. Neal needed three things; someone to talk to about his past, a sense of security while doing so, and time to come to terms with it.

Of those things, the only one Peter could provide was the one thing Neal would probably not want; someone to talk to. The other requirements were, for the most part, out of his hands. He'd do what he could to protect Neal and he hoped Hughes would do the same but at the end of the day, Neal was a key witness in possibly two FBI cases. Agent Littleton was a decent man; he wouldn't put Neal through any more than absolutely necessary, but Peter couldn't say the same about Agent Parker.

Parker may have stumbled upon the darkest of Neal's secrets, and he'd had no compassion. He'd seen an unimaginable abuse of a child as a _positive_ development, a way to make a name for himself. What it might do to Neal, the victim, had been irrelevant. What he planned to do with his theory was still to be determined.

Per doctor's orders, Neal had a week to rest, to regain his strength before it was business as usual. He deserved to spend that time where he felt most comfortable and that was not the Burke guest room.

"Okay, Neal." He couldn't give him much, but he could give him that. "If that's what you want to do."

Peter expected his compliance to bring relief to Neal's face, but instead, it brought a look of doubt.

"Really?" His brows were furrowed. "I can go home?"

"In a couple of days," Peter clarified with a nod. " _If_ you're doing okay and if you've gotten some of your _strength_ back."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal replied after a moment. "I think I'll do better there, you know, in familiar surroundings."

Again, it was something Peter could well understand. "Think you'll _sleep_ better?"

He asked before he thought and immediately kicked himself at the pained look in Neal's eyes. It probably felt like a cheap shot but he hadn't meant it that way. Sometimes, even with the best intentions, he simply said the wrong thing. He was about to apologize when Neal spoke.

"I _hope_ so," he replied quietly, not holding Peter's gaze. He sounded anything _but_ hopeful.

Again, it wasn't the response Peter had expected, but it had opened the door just a bit. He'd felt since their awkward encounter outside the guest room that Neal needed something. It hadn't been a trip to the bathroom, and although he'd agreed to accompany Peter on his kitchen raid, it hadn't been food, either. Maybe he wanted company or maybe, just maybe, he wanted to _talk_.

Whatever it was, Peter was willing to supply it. He hadn't wanted to push and even when he accidentally did so, Neal hadn't shut him down. Instead, he'd responded, engaged. Peter knew he needed to handle this correctly but it was delicate work and delicate was _not_ his strong suit. Still, just like at the hospital, he was the only one here.

"The dreams will pass in a few days," he said when the silence lagged between them. "Dr. Duvall said this might happen; it's just a side effect of the ketamine."

Neal raised anguished eyes and met Peter's. "No, it _isn't_."


	67. Chapter 67

**Chapter Sixty-seven**

When Neal had first regained consciousness at the hospital, his memory had been spotty. He'd asked Peter what happened and Peter had responded by asking a question of his own; _what do you remember?_ Neal had been uncertain.

 _I have bad dreams sometimes,_ he'd said.

Peter knew everyone had nightmares; he was awakened every so often by them himself. Usually, his were about his job. Some crazed criminal taking Elizabeth or threatening her in some way. The commonality of his dreams was always that he'd somehow caused it, had allowed his work to follow him home and threaten Elizabeth. The other common theme was the feeling of helplessness as he tried in vain to save her. Still, for some reason, it had surprised him to hear Neal make such an admission.

From that exchange, he'd gotten the impression Neal's bad dreams were about being found by Terrence Eden; a nightmare that had, in fact, come true. It was for this reason when he'd asked Neal what he remembered he'd been unsure. He'd been unable to determine what was a dream and what was reality.

But whatever had awakened him in the ICU had been beyond a _bad dream_. He'd been terror-stricken and wide-eyed; awake but still trapped in the dream for several moments. Dr. Duvall had aptly called it a _night terror_ and said it had been caused by the lingering effect of the drugs in Neal's system.

But Neal didn't seem to think so.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked. "Have you had dreams like this _before_?"

"Yeah," Neal confirmed, unable to hold his gaze. "But it's been a long time since they've been the bad."

Peter's first instinct was to ask what he'd dreamed, but he feared such a direct question would halt progress.

"How _long?_ " He asked instead.

"Since the first few weeks in supermax."

Peter felt a pain of guilt. The thought of Neal waking like that, alone yet not alone, was unsettling. Unsure of how to respond he chose not to. Listen more and talk less; that was what he needed to do. The less he opened his mouth, the less likely he was to say wrong the thing.

It worked.

"After that," Neal continued quietly. "It happened less often and then only ever once and a while." He looked up at Peter in distress. "But now it's every night again."

Every night? Did that mean he'd had nightmares _every night_ the first weeks in prison? Guilt again pierced him. When Neal's sentence had been read, Peter had felt bad at the severity of it, but Neal had seemed unaffected. It was for the best, Peter told himself. Neal was a smart young man; he could have done anything with his life, but instead, he'd chosen the excitement and thrill of crime. He needed a lesson in humility and to learn that actions had consequences.

He'd thought he knew so much, was so wise in the ways of Neal Caffrey. He'd since learned how wrong he was and how little he actually knew.

"It makes sense, Neal," he tried to console. "You've been through hell; I'd be surprised if you didn't have nightmares."

Neal shook his head, again not willing to meet Peter's eyes. "I hate it," his voice was barely audible. "I hate how it makes me feel."

Another admission; Neal was opening up, bit by bit, but it was an agonizing process. Peter felt like a soldier navigating a minefield, step by careful step.

"I know you do," Peter told him. "But everyone has them, Neal, even me."

His words brought Neal's face up. "You do?" he asked doubtfully.

"Sure I do," Peter said, "and so does every agent I've ever worked with. Bad things happen out there," he stressed. "Sometimes they just stick with you."

Peter knew Neal, better than most, knew the bad things that happened out there. He'd seen them, lived through them and, try as he might to deny it, they _had_ stuck with him. Peter had grown up in a solid, stable family. He'd had friends, played ball, gone to high school dances. His life hadn't been perfect, but it had been secure. He hadn't been exposed to the ugliest side of humanity until he'd become an adult. Neal, on the other hand, never seemed to have had stability or security and he had been exposed to the worst of humankind in his youth. No wonder he had nightmares.

Peter wanted him to know he wasn't alone in that; everyone, even Federal Agents, had bad dreams. He hoped he'd gotten that message, and his silence meant he was processing. Trying to exercise patience, Peter gave his attention to the bowl of roast and potatoes.

They sat in silence for several moments; Peter ate and Neal, lost in his own thoughts, stared at the coffee table.

"Have you ever had the _same_ dream?" Neal finally asked, looking up with haunted eyes. "Over and over?"

More progress. It sounded like Neal wasn't just experiencing nightmares but a reoccurring one. Peter didn't know the significance of that, but he was sure Elizabeth could tell him. She did have a shrink for a father.

"Not the _exact_ same," Peter replied, "but the worst ones are always pretty similar." He paused, contemplating how much he was willing to share. "Mine are about Elizabeth," he volunteered a bit hesitantly. "The faces change, and the circumstances," he could hear his voice growing strained; he never talked about his nightmares, either. "But she's always in danger or hurt, and I can't get to her to save her."

By saying it aloud, giving voice to his fears, Peter realized several things. First, describing his dreams even vaguely had brought back traces of the emotions they evoked in him. His chest had felt tight; his throat had constricted. Although his nightmares were bad, they weren't as traumatizing as the one he'd seen Neal go through at the hospital. If talking about his had been this hard, he could understand Neal's reluctance at discussing what was tormenting him.

Secondly, opening up about something as personal and private as your deepest fears was disquieting. Just the little he'd said made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He imagined those feelings would be even more profound in Neal if his dreams were, in fact, related to his past experiences with Terrence Eden.

The other, perhaps more surprising, thing he'd realized was how similar his dreams about Neal had been to the standard ones he had about Elizabeth.

"That's awful." There was sympathy in Neal's eyes.

"Yeah, it is," Peter replied, leaning forward and sitting the bowl on the table. He was no longer hungry. "I'm usually so freaked out I can't go back to sleep, even with her right there beside me."

It was true, even with her in his arms, reassuring him she was safe and everything was fine, he was often unable to go back to sleep. Fortunately, the occurrences were rare, happening only two or three times a year. Yet Neal had gone through consecutive nights of much worse, locked in a cell with no one to comfort or reassure him. In fact, Peter imagined the responses he'd gotten had been just the opposite. Inmates weren't generally emphatic or compassionate; they would have pounced on any sign of weakness. Neal's first nights had been filled with torment and his days most likely had been as well.

"Same here," Neal admitted, finally taking a sip of his tea. Peter could see the slight tremor as he raised the glass to his lips. Thirst quenched, he replaced the glass on the table. "So do you tell her about them?" He asked. "The dreams?"

Surprised by the question, Peter hesitated. He wanted to say _yes, I do, and it makes everything better;_ maybe then Neal would feel encouraged to open up. But it wouldn't be the truth. He and Neal were as different as night and day in many ways, but in some, they were very similar. Neither of them liked to admit mistakes, show weakness or share their feelings. Elizabeth had told him often they were both too proud for their own good.

Not only would it be wrong to lie to him but he doubted Neal would believe him anyway.

"No I don't," Peter admitted. "I've never told anyone." The statement was true but for one exception, and that _exception_ was now looking at him in question. "Well," he added reluctantly, "until now."

Neal seemed unsure as to how to take his admission; his expression was one of ambivalence. "Why?" he asked, searching Peter's face doubtfully. "Why tell _me?_ "

"I don't know," Peter replied. "I guess because..." he struggled with his answer. "I wanted you to know I understand, that's all."

Neal's doubt gave way to understanding, quickly followed by regret. He gave his head a slight shake. "It's not the same thing, Peter."

"What's not the same?" It was Peter's turn to look confused.

"Our _..situations,"_ Neal answered, a pained look on his face. "I know what you're trying to do, but," again he shook his head, "it's not the _same_."

"It doesn't have to be the same, Neal," Peter countered. "The point I'm making is that you're not the only person who wakes up freaking out in the middle of the night; I do too sometimes. And so does anyone who's seen the things we've seen, or," he added. "been _through_ the things we've been through. Its nothing to be ashamed of, Neal," he told him, "and it doesn't make you weak. It just makes you... _human."_

Everything Peter had done had been to help; to lessen the awkwardness and ease Neal's anxiety but it seemed his attempt had fallen short of the mark. Neal seemed more distressed now than he'd been when he'd opened the bedroom door to find Peter standing there.

"But you don't understand, Peter. I _am_ weak," Neal's eyes were full of anguish, "and I'm a coward. I always have been."

Neal was a lot of things, but weak and cowardly were not among them; the way he'd handled himself during his ordeal was nothing short of heroic. Peter was so taken aback by the proclamation it took him a moment to respond.

"Look, Neal, I don't know-"

"I could have stopped him," Neal cut in desperately, stopping Peter mid-sentence. "but I _didn't_. I knew they'd need to talk to me, but when I got there, I just... _froze._ " At first, Peter hadn't known what Neal was talking about, but then he did; he'd heard the story before. "I was so scared I couldn't say a word." His voice dropped in shame. "I just ran away."

Neal's mind had jumped back to the day he'd taken the letter to the precinct. Peter thought the nightmares Neal was having were about being found by Eden and it stood to reason they'd be centered around that specific incident. After all, the files were clear about what happened to anyone who dared to speak against Eden and Neal's battered state indicated he'd already had a taste of the man's wrath.

That day had haunted Detective Strand, too; the day a kid came to him needing help but had been too afraid to ask for it. Strand had blamed himself for not being more patient, for pushing too hard.

Neal, like the detective, was being too hard on himself. He was categorizing his actions that day as cowardly, but the truth was just the opposite. Neal had found a way to escape Eden's clutches, but before fleeing to safety, he'd written the letter and taken the risk of hand delivering it to the police. His reason?

 _Just because no one wants them doesn't mean they don't matter. No one should have to live like that. Please help them_

Neal may have been too afraid to ask for help for himself, but he hadn't been too afraid to ask for others.

"Of course you were scared, Neal," Peter acknowledged. "You had every right to be, but you _didn't_ just run away; you wrote that letter and gave it to the police." It had been an incredibly brave thing to do, but Neal seemed completely incognizant of it. "You saved lives, Neal, some of them _children_." He searched Neal's eyes, puzzled by refusal to see the good he'd done. "You helped them when no one else would. How is that anything short of heroic?"

Neal's expression of self-reproach wavered at his words but only for a moment. "I was too scared to _talk_ ," he countered, his voice rising slightly in his distress. "I didn't tell the Detective _anything._ If I had, he could have arrested him, _stopped_ him. Do you have any idea how many people he's hurt since then?"

Peter imagined the number was great but Neal had done his part; he'd saved the ones he could. His level of guilt was disproportionate to his responsibility in the matter. He, too, had been a victim.

"That's on him, Neal, not _you,_ " Peter said sternly, allowing an authoritative tone to creep into his voice. "You were just a kid, and you _still_ did more to stop him than anyone else. You did a brave thing, Neal," he said firmly. "Cut yourself some slack."

Given the emotionally charged topics of discussion, Peter wasn't surprised to see tears well up in Neal's eyes.

"I _wasn't_ brave," his voice was strained. "I was scared, trapped and... _desperate_." The memories he was sharing were Danny's but the effort to control the emotion they stirred was all Neal. "But when I got on that bus I started _over,"_ he said, wiping escaping tears away impatiently, _"_ and swore I'd _never_ feel that way again. But now..." he looked at Peter in despair. "I'm feeling that way _every night."_

And now, after all that, they were back to what had awakened Neal in the first place; the nightmare.

Peter still hadn't learned its exact nature but he had gained insight into how it made Neal feel; weak, scared, trapped and desperate.

It made him feel like a victim; it made him feel like _Danny_.

Peter had realized early that supporting Neal through this process would be a tricky undertaking. There would be times he needed understanding and reassurance, but there would also be times he needed a firm reminder of where he was and who he was _now._ This seemed the time for the latter.

"It's because that's how you felt back _then_ , Neal," Peter said, pointing out the obvious, "and this with Eden has brought it all up. But like you told me," he reminded with certainty, "that's not who you are anymore, and that man has no control over your life. In fact, it's just the opposite," he met Neal's eyes. "Now you have control over _his;_ your testimony is going to send him to prison for the rest of his life."

It wasn't the first time Peter had brought this to Neal's attention, but it was the first time it seemed to register. Pulled from the past and once again grounded in the present, the anguish faded from his eyes.

"Actions have consequences," Neal said with a final swipe of tears from his cheeks. "It's nice, for once, to be on the other side of that statement."


	68. Chapter 68

**Chapter** **Sixty-Eight**

Peter was glad his words, his reminder of the current state of things, had lessened the desperate look in Neal's eyes.

"Sometimes it takes awhile to see them," Peter said in response to Neal's statement, "but actions _always_ have consequences, and Eden's have been a long time coming."

Neal nodded in agreement, reaching down to pick up his tea. He hadn't touched it since he'd sat it there. Peter didn't know if he was actually thirsty or if he just needed something to do until he regained his composure. He'd come very close to tears.

"How long do you think all this will take?" Neal asked, hand shaking slightly as returned the glass to the table. "Before it's _over_?"

Peter knew what lay ahead would be difficult for Neal and the longer it took, the longer it drug out, the harder it would be. He wished he had a better answer.

"It depends," he replied truthfully. "I'd imagine his lawyer will stall, drag things out as long as he can. He can't beat the charges," he added, "but he'll try to delay the inevitable."

Again Neal nodded. Although that hadn't been his tactic when on trial he'd been around White Collar long enough to know it was a fairly common one. Especially when a person knew a guilty verdict was coming. Rikers wasn't a pleasant place to be, but there was the feeling it was transient; that things could change. A Federal Penitentiary, on the other hand, had the oppressive atmosphere of permanency. The longer that could be delayed, the better.

"The Federal Prosecutor will push for expediency, and with the weight of the evidence and the right judge," Peter continued, trying to be optimistic, "it could be wrapped up within a year, year and a half."

In the judicial system, that _was_ considered expedient, but Neal winced at the thought of such a protracted process. "Damn, that's a long time."

"The wheels of justice may turn slow, but at least now they're turning," Peter told him. "Eden's going to prison, Neal, and once he does, you'll be able to put this behind you."

"I thought I had put it behind me," Neal said a bit sharply, shifting on the sofa. His tone and the grimace on his face made Peter wonder if it was time for pain medication. "I left it all in Chicago. I came here, started a new life," It was the second time Neal had eluded to starting over, "and didn't let fear control me anymore." His eyes flashed in the low light. "I learned to push through fear, to _overcome_ it."

Neal's crimes of preference had always been the ones that provided the greatest challenge and posed the most danger. During the years Peter had chased him, Neal seemed addicted to the rush, to the thrill that came from taking risks. He was an adrenaline junkie and Peter feared, if someone didn't stop him, he would come to a bad end. But Neal's reckless behavior hadn't started out as thrill-seeking; it had started as a way to overcome his fears, to prove to himself that he wasn't a coward.

"And so you became the fearless Neal Caffrey," Peter commented, again having a new lens in which to view his CI. "Scaling castle wall's in Copenhagen, jumping rooftop to rooftop to elude the Parisian Police." Or deliberating provoking the Federal Agent investigating his crimes by handing him a green lollipop. "How old were you?"

"What?" Neal asked in confusion at the randomness of the question.

"The first time I saw you outside the bank where you cashed in that bond," Peter clarified, realizing that even the great Neal Caffrey couldn't make that leap. "How old were you?"

It was something he'd wondered about ever since he'd learned about Neal's past; his _age._ How old had he been when he'd been on the streets of Chicago, so desperate for help, for protection, he'd fallen into Eden's clutches? Detective Strand had put his age at between fourteen and sixteen when he'd left the letter and fled, and according to the timeline, he'd come to New York shortly after that. At some point, he'd forged the bonds and after cashing in a couple had gotten the attention of the FBI. Peter had been the agent assigned the case, nicknaming his young adversary James Bonds.

How old had he been the day he'd handed him that lollipop, beginning their game of cat and mouse? Peter knew the date, and the photo from the Chicago precinct had been time-stamped; a truthful answer here would give him the age when Danny had become Neal Caffrey.

Neal was looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What difference does it make _now_?"

"None what-so-ever," Peter told him. "So there's no reason not to tell me, is there?"

Neal's look of confusion changed to one of doubtfulness. "You know how old I was," he replied uncertainly. "You know my file."

A file that verified Neal's identity based on forged documents and false statements.

"I know what the _file_ says, but I'm asking _you._ " Peter held his gaze. "How _old_ were you?"

It was a direct question, and Peter knew Neal didn't like to lie outright, especially not to him.

Still unsure of the reason for the question, Neal studied him with wary eyes. "If it doesn't matter," he said. "Why do you care?"

"Because I _do,_ Neal," Peter replied in mild irritation. " _I care._ And I think I've proven that so are you going to answer my question or not?"

"Almost nineteen," Neal said after a moment.

There it was, finally, the truth. _Eighteen_. Not twenty-one like his birth certificate said; he must have added a couple years to his age when he'd become Neal Caffrey. It probably had been more a practical move than anything else. A sixteen-year-old on his own might attract attention from all the wrong people. An eighteen-year-old, however, was legally an adult and would be left to fend for himself.

"Damn it, Neal," he said almost under his breath, feeling a wave of regret at having hounded a kid with nowhere to go. "I knew you were young but _eighteen_?"

"Almost _nineteen_ ," Neal said again.

The smartest _almost_ nineteen-year-old Peter had ever encountered. He'd been impressed when he'd thought he was twenty-one.

" _Almost nineteen_ isn't twenty-one," Peter pointed out. "You were just a kid, Neal. If I'd have known-"

"Stop saying that," Neal's tone was sharp. "I wasn't a _kid_ ; I was eighteen. A legal adult. Anyway," he added, his indignation fading. "It doesn't make any difference now."

"But it might have made a difference then," Peter stressed. He'd thought he'd known so much about Neal Caffrey back then but he'd known so _little_. _"_ Maybe not in the charges against you, but in the _sentence_ the judge gave you." He searched Neal's eyes, the thought of him awakening in terror, night after night, still weighing heavily on his mind. How old had he been then, twenty-one? _Twenty-two?_ "You should have never been in supermax, Neal."

"It wasn't pleasant but I came out okay. Why the sudden retrospection?" Neal asked, regarding him with renewed curiosity. "Do you regret _arresting_ me?"

Neal had been on a dangerous path and had he not been detoured from it, he might not be alive now. Even if he was, he certainly wouldn't be sitting on Peter's sofa.

"No," he replied, shaking his head with conviction. "I don't regret that; you broke the law, and I was doing my job. I just wish I'd known about your past, Neal, that's all."

"There's no way you could have, Peter," Neal said. "No one did."

Peter searched his face. "Not even Kate?" The flash of pain in Neal's eyes made Peter regret the question.

"No," Neal said quietly, "not even _Kate."_ The inflection in his voice as he said her name reinforced Peter's feeling of guilt. Neal had enough painful memories to deal with and he'd reminded him of yet another. "I'd moved on; there was no point in talking about the past. It was over." He shrugged. "At least I thought it was."

Peter knew the moment Neal had come face to face with Eden must have been a traumatic one.

"It must have been a hell of a shock when Eden walked into that storage room."

"It was," Neal admitted. "I couldn't believe it. I was so... _stunned_ I couldn't think straight; I could hardly breathe."

He said stunned, not scared, but Peter knew he had to have been terrified. "You thought he was going to kill you."

"Yeah I did," Neal replied. "And I knew he'd take his time with it, make me _suffer._ That's what he does." The words were spoken from a place of experience.

"But fortunately," Peter added, "he had other plans for you first. Any idea how he found out you were in New York?"

"He didn't tell me," Neal answered. "I guessed he must have seen me, maybe while he was in town making arrangements for the job."

Having spotted his former forger, he'd probably asked around, trying to put a name to the face. At some point, he'd learned Danny had become Neal Caffrey.

"And instead of killing you, he put together this elaborate plan to kidnap you and use you as his decoy."

"He could have paid someone to be his decoy," Neal said flatly. "He used me because he wanted to hurt me, to show me he could still make me do whatever he wanted." His tone was bitter. "Just like before."

Peter had learned a lot about Terrence Eden and how he'd operated. He knew he lured young people into his crew by providing them with what they wanted most, then used manipulation and intimidation to keep them under his control. Agent Parker had called it conditioning, brainwashing, and it worked so well that in a decade the police had never found a single person who'd dare betray him. As far as they knew, the only person who'd ever had the courage to speak out against Eden was his mysterious forger who'd written the letter exposing the trafficking ring and then disappeared without a trace.

Peter knew that hadn't been done by a conscious-driven, middle-aged office worker; it had been done by a conscious-driven sixteen-year-old boy. Such an act of rebellion had probably not only shaken Eden's organization but the man himself. Of course he'd wanted to make Neal pay for that, but that quest for revenge had been his downfall. His threats against Andrew may have made Neal go along with his wishes but he'd never controlled him.

"Well, _just like before_ he was wrong," Peter said with certainty. "You broke any control he had on you in Chicago when you left that letter with Detective Strand, and he _never_ controlled you here; you just let him think he did." He met Neal's eyes, willing him to hear and understand. "He overestimated himself, and he _underestimated_ you; that's why he's sitting in an eleven by thirteen cell at Rikers."

"No," Neal contradicted with a shake of his head. "He's sitting there because of you, Peter, because you didn't make that call to the Marshal's Service. You gave me the benefit of the doubt," he added, "and if you hadn't, Andrew and I would be dead, and Eden would still be free."

"You can thank Mozzie for that," Peter told him. "He was certain you hadn't run, and he convinced me to consider something else might be going on."

"But you trust Mozzie's word less than you trust mine."

"That's true," Peter agreed, "But I didn't just take him at his word; he had evidence to support his claim."

"What kind of evidence?" Neal inquired, frowning slightly.

"He showed me your Plan B, Neal. Your backup, contingency, in-case-of-emergency, _exit_ strategy."

Neal's eyes widened slightly in alarm. "Oh. _That_."

"Yes, _that._ " Peter tried not to smile at Neal's expression. "He said you'd never have left without it and I was inclined to agree with him. So we decided to see what we could turn up on our own; he went to talk to his people on the street and I met Jones at the office. You know pretty much what happened after that."

"Yeah, I committed a robbery, and you were suspended from your job." He supplied. "It was a banner weekend, wasn't it?"

"One for the books," Peter admitted, stretching back in his chair. "But I've been reinstated, and the charges against you have been dropped, so once you're healthy, you'll be back at your desk and things can get back to normal."

"That's what I want," Neal said. "For things to get back to normal. And speaking of normal, you don't have to babysit me, Peter. I'm fine; you can go back to bed."

"I'm not babysitting you," Peter countered. "I told you; I just came down to get something to eat."

"And you did," Neal replied, nodding at the bowl of pot roast and potatoes on the table in front of them. "So you don't have to stay up on my account. Especially if you can sleep."

"How about you?" Peter frowned. "Think you can sleep?"

"I'll give it a try in a bit." In other words, _no._ "But you go on. I'll see you in the morning."

"I'm good," Peter said, having no intention of leaving Neal sitting alone in the dark. "I don't have to work in the morning." He picked up the remote control from the side table. "We don't even have to talk," he offered, clicking the television on. "We can watch a movie or something."

He was aware that Neal was looking at him with uncertainty. "Is that what you do when you can't sleep?" he asked. "Watch television?"

"Yeah," Peter answered, lowering the volume a bit before he began to flip through the channels. "Or read, or do a crossword. Anything to distract my mind from whatever's bothering me." He glanced at Neal. "How about you?" he asked. "What works for you?"

"Running works best," Neal replied. "But if the weather's bad, sometimes I can paint." He looked sideways at Peter, a faint smile on his lips. "Or _plan_."

"Well, that sounds ominous," Peter commented, stopping on a black and white Humphrey Bogart. "Maybe I should buy you a treadmill. Just to be _safe_."

"Sam Spade," Neal remarked, identifying Bogart's character immediately. "Can't beat the classics. Landice makes a nice one, by the way."

"A nice what?" Peter asked, replacing the remote.

"Treadmill," Neal supplied. "The 770 Pro Trainer is top of the line." His eyes danced with mischief. "It's a steal at just under five grand."

Peter propped his socked feet on the coffee table, taking care not to kick his pot roast, and fixed his eyes on the screen. "An art set, then."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Elizabeth awakened to find she was alone in the bed; Peter was nowhere to be seen, and the absence of light in the bathroom told her he was not there. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table; five-forty. She'd been sleeping so soundly she had no idea when Peter had gotten up, or why, or why he hadn't returned. Concerned that something might be wrong, she put on her slippers, grabbed her robe from the chair and headed downstairs.

She could see the blue flicker of the television and hear its low rumble as she descended the stairs. They had a set in their bedroom but if Peter had a restless night, he always used the one in the living room so he wouldn't disturb her. That must have been what had happened last night; he'd come downstairs to watch television and had fallen asleep. She'd probably find him in his recliner or stretched on on the sofa.

But he wasn't in the recliner or on the sofa; he was asleep in the overstuffed chair. It was Neal who was sleeping on the sofa. He was curled up on his side, looking remarkably comfortable. Peter, on the other hand, looked much less so. She wondered what she'd missed in the night to have resulted in the scene now before her.

The only other time she'd seen Neal stretched out on the Burke sofa was after he'd broke into the Howser Clinic. That time, he'd held an ice pack to his aching head while Peter berated him for his impulsive and reckless behavior. Although Peter had been angry at Neal for his actions, the drug-induced profession of trust in him they had prompted had touched him deeply. It was one of two exchanges that would reveal a truth to Peter Elizabeth had known for some time; how important he was to Neal. The second one had taken place at the airport moments before Kate was killed. Peter had arrived, desperate to make Neal reconsider his plans, and had asked him why he'd said goodbye to everyone but him. Neal had told him it was because he was the only person who could change his mind.

Peter's importance to Neal went beyond that of a supervisor or even the person responsible for his work release arrangement; it predated those developments. For whatever reason, during the time Peter had pursed him, Neal had formed an attachment to him that neither of them understood or wanted to confront. Elizabeth had had a theory about why that had happened but Peter hadn't wanted to accept it. But now, after everything he'd learned about Neal's past, she knew he finally had. Neal had needed something real, something steady and dependable in his life and he had found it in Peter Burke.

Satchmo who until now had been sleeping on the floor between the coffee table and sofa ambled towards her with a wagging tail.

"Good morning, Satch," she said quietly, giving his head a gentle pat. "Need out?"

Satchmo followed her to the back door and waited as she unlocked the deadbolt. A moment later he trotted out, and she stood in the doorway, chilled in the early morning air until he finished his business. Once he returned, she closed the door and rebolted the lock. Although she'd tried to be quiet, her and Satchmo's movements must have disturbed Peter because when they entered the living room, his eyes were open.

He removed his feet from the table with a grimace and patted Satchmo's head, who then reclaimed his spot on the floor. With a glance at their sleeping guest, Peter got to his feet, taking pains to move as quietly as possible.

"Neal okay?" Elizabeth asked in low tones as he joined her.

"Yeah," Peter answered, his voice still hoarse with sleep. "Just had a bad dream, that's all."

Elizabeth had seen what Neal's bad dreams were like.

"Did he talk about it?" Peter had shared Dr. Duvall's recommendation that Neal talk to a therapist about his trauma; he'd also shared Neal's refusal to do so.

"Not really," Peter told her. "Just that it's the same dream and he's had it every night since this happened."

Given what he'd experienced it wasn't surprising, but it was sad. Sad that even with Eden locked away, he was still able to torment Neal.

"Hopefully it's a temporary thing," she stated, "and once the shock of what's happened wears off, he'll be able to rest better." She frowned. "Should we wake him up and let him go back to his room?" she asked Peter. "It's kind of chilly in here."

"No," he replied quietly, moving to the recliner and picking up the throw. "Let him stay were he is."

A moment later, taking care not to disturb Neal or Satchmo, Peter gently spread it over Neal's still body. The act of kindness and the tenderness in which it was accomplished warmed Elizabeth's heart and brought a smile to her lips.

"What?" Peter asked when he returned.

"I was just thinking about what you said before," she answered, her eyes meeting his. "About knowing how to be Neal's handler but not sure about how to be his friend." She reached down, grasped his hand and squeezed it. "Looks to me like you've figured it out."


	69. Chapter 69

**Chapter Sixty-Nine**

Neal wasn't sure what awakened him; the sound of quiet conversation or the smell of bacon in the air. Either way, it was the most pleasant return to consciousness he'd experienced in a long time. He wasn't tied to a chair, on a cold floor or in a hospital bed; he was tucked beneath a blanket on Peter's sofa. It was so pleasant in fact that he didn't want to spoil it by moving, so he just stayed where he was.

He could hear Peter and Elizabeth in the kitchen. Though he couldn't make out what they were saying, the relaxed, comfortable way they spoke with one another came through clearly. He heard the faucet turn on, dishes rattle. The refrigerator door open and close. The two of them were fixing breakfast. It was like something out of a book or from a movie; the sounds and feelings depicting what he imagined a home must feel like. This _was_ a home, Peter and Elizabeth's home; they were a family, and for the moment at least, he felt like part of it.

He knew it was unwise to let that feeling linger, to allow the moment to satisfy an inherent weakness in his personality. Worse than having nothing real in your life was thinking you did, trying to build on it and having it fall out from beneath your feet. It had happened with his family, with Terrence Eden, and again with Kate. Anytime he'd felt like something was solid, that there was something he could depend on, it evaporated.

There was one exception to that; Peter Burke. Peter was the epitome of solid.

There were times when he was pursuing him that Neal wished he'd evaporate, or at least lose interest and move on, but he never did. He was unrelenting. Some people had dependable friends, people they could always count on to show up. Not him; he had a dependable adversary.

Oddly enough, over time, he came to like having Peter chasing him. He told himself it was the game he enjoyed, the challenge of staying a step ahead of the smartest person he'd ever met but he knew it was more than that. It was nice to have someone constant in his life even if that someone was determined to arrest him and send him to prison.

Which Peter did; and when Neal went to prison, he missed more than just his freedom.

He'd thought that was the end of it, but it hadn't been. It was Peter who walked into Kate's apartment almost four years later and arrested him again. It was Peter who agreed to meet him a week after that and, a little over three months later, when Neal had served every day of his original sentence, it was Peter who agreed to the work release agreement Neal had proposed.

He made it clear from the onset the arrangement was purely a functional one; it's continuation depended solely on Neal's ability to work within stringent guidelines and to deliver results to the FBI. Failing to meet either requirement would result in the termination of the agreement and a return to prison. Peter wasn't just his boss on the job, he was his handler, and that meant he could control every aspect of Neal's life. Neal instinctively pushed back against that, testing both Peter and his boundaries and surprisingly, found more flexibility than he expected. Peter was by-the-book and though unmovable in some areas, he was willing to compromise in others. Thanks to Peter's willingness to allow some latitude, Neal had been able to move from the rat-ridden room he'd been put in, to Riverside Drive.

Neal loved working at White Collar. He enjoyed the challenge the job presented but most of all he enjoyed working with Peter. As morally demanding as he could be, Neal realized Peter didn't expect more from anyone else than he expected of himself. He believed in justice, in fairness, and was governed by a strict code of ethics that never wavered. Neal had never encountered anyone like him. He was actually a good man and, for some reason, he seemed to think Neal could be one too. Neal had never met someone who wanted him to be _better_ than he was, much less believed it was possible.

Mozzie reminded Neal that it was in Peter's best interest to keep him out of prison and at White Collar. It didn't mean he actually cared or thought well of him; it was simply a good career move. Reading more into it than was there would be a mistake. Peter was an FBI agent; he staunchly opposed everything Neal was. As much as Neal might want it, he could never have Peter's respect or his friendship.

Neal recognized the truth in what Mozzie said. Even though there were times when Peter felt more like a partner than his handler he was quick to make sure Neal never forgot where he stood. Their arrangement was, if not day by day, at least case by case. Neal was a CI, and his value depended solely upon his usefulness. This was nothing new, and Peter had never claimed it was anything else.

But the feeling of camaraderie Neal felt when working with Peter had begun to overshadow reason. He knew his need to feel a part of something, to feel he belonged somewhere, was a fundamental weakness in his character. It had had only led to pain and disappointment, and he thought he'd learned his lesson. But for some reason, with Peter, he was unable to learn from his past experiences. Peter was a good man; he wasn't like the others. He was fair and honest, and he knew Neal better than anyone ever had. Surely, over time he could come to see his value, to think he was worthy of respect. Maybe he could even learn to care about him, not just for what he could do, but for who he was.

It was insane, unrealistic and he knew it. Mozzie swore he'd fallen victim to Stockholm Syndrome and Neal feared he was right. Peter was an FBI agent and he was a criminal; that was a distance friendship could never span.

And yet, it _had._ What else could account for Peter's behavior this week? He'd ignored protocol and orders. He'd risked his reputation and his job. He had given Neal the heads up the FBI knew about his past with Eden and had left the file so Neal could read it. He'd withheld information from his own colleagues and had even been willing to help Neal avoid testifying if he didn't feel like he could handle it.

And that wasn't all. He'd also been there when Neal needed him most, had been an anchor when tumultuous emotions threatened to sweep him away. Peter had comforted him, reassured him and made him feel safe. It was something he'd never experienced before.

Those were not the actions of a Federal Agent, the actions of an agent handling his CI. Those were the actions of a friend; of a person who cared. It was what Neal had wanted more than anything and, thanks to Terrence Eden, he'd gotten it. But that was a hard thing to reconcile, the fact that Eden's return had brought him to this moment, had led to his lying here, listening to the sounds of home and feeling somehow like he belonged.

It was also hard to know where he and Peter went from here. Both of them had been operating under duress and well outside their perspective comfort zones. Peter wasn't a coddler, one to lend a sympathetic ear or shoulder. He was a man of action who encouraged by telling a person to Cowboy up and be a man. And Neal had spent years trying to forget about his past, to forget he'd ever been that naive kid who'd been so desperate for acceptance he'd let himself be taken in and used by someone like Terrence Eden.

But he'd told Peter more about it, more about who he was than he'd ever told anyone. And not just at the hospital when he could blame the pharmaceuticals for lowering his defenses and loosened his lips, but last night as well.

"Morning," Peter's voice snapped him from his thoughts. He'd stepped from the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. "How are you feeling?"

Neal hastily moved into an upright position, stifling a grunt of pain as he did so. He was amazed at quickly he'd gone from feeling warm and relaxed to awkward and uncomfortable.

"Good," he answered, reaching up to smooth his hair. He was keenly aware of his rumpled appearance while Peter, dressed in jeans and a black tee shirt, looked freshly bathed and shaven. Thank goodness today was shower day. "What time is it?"

"Just a little after nine," Peter told him. "I wasn't sure how comfortable you were, but I figured it was best to let you sleep as long as you could. Want some coffee?"

"Yeah," Neal replied, gingerly getting to his feet, "but I need to, you know, freshen up first."

"Don't take too long," Elizabeth chimed in, setting a platter of food on the dining room table. "Breakfast is ready. We didn't know what you liked so we've made an assortment. Bacon and eggs, toast and jam, fruit and bagels."

 _"We_?" Neal echoed, looking at Peter doubtfully. "Peter _cooks_?"

"He makes toast," she clarified teasingly. "Splits bagels. Sets out the butter, creme cheese, and jam."

"And makes the coffee," Peter added, holding his cup up as proof. "All _vital_ parts of a good breakfast."

"It sounds good," Neal admitted, enjoying the rapport between the Burkes. "But really, Elizabeth, you don't have to do extra because of me. I'm good with whatever you guys usually have."

"Speak for yourself," Peter admonished as Neal started down the hallway. "If you want a bowl of cereal, you're welcome to it; I have that five mornings a week. I'm all about some bacon and eggs."

Neal had only been at the Burke breakfast table once and that was not by invitation. Peter had told him he enjoyed breakfast. His reason? Because it didn't involve Neal Caffrey.

He'd dug a plastic Sheriff's Badge out of the cereal box that morning, much to Peter's chagrin, and he still had it. He'd even packed it when he'd left to meet Kate at the airfield, intent on starting a new life. Unlike leaving Chicago, leaving New York was hard. There were things in his life, _people_ in his life, he didn't want to leave and would never forget.

Peter had been at the top of that list, and he'd kept the badge as a token, as a reminder.

"Super Sugar O's?" Neal asked, turning to face Peter. "Did you already get the prize out of the box?"

"No," Peter chuckled. "It's still in there. Let me guess; you want it."

"Of course I do," Neal replied. Prizes in cereal were like a small scale treasure hunt. He liked Cracker Jack prizes too. "Do you know what it is?"

"Some yo-yo thingy." For a Federal agent, Peter's skills of observation at the breakfast table were disappointing. "But you better wash your hands before you dig through my cereal box."

"I will," Neal grinned, his former comfort level returning. "Give me twenty minutes."

A half an hour later, Neal pulled the prize from the box.

"It's a _3-in-one_ Yo-yo," he clarified, tearing open the plastic wrapping to survey his prize. "It's a Yo-yo," he read from the small paper he'd removed from the packaging. "Does all the tricks a regular yo-yo does. Sleep it... Spin it... Walk it... Fly it 'round the world. It's a whistle," he continued. "Use the secret _Super Sugar O's_ whistle code to send messages to your friends." He looked up at Peter in amusement. "Morse code."

"Well, no sense in reinventing the wheel," Peter excused, shoveling in another bite of scrambled eggs.

"And it's a _puzzle_ ," Neal finished up, flipping the yo-yo over in his hand. "Cool," he tilted it first one way, then the other, moving the little metal ball through the maze. "It's is a ball in a maze puzzle."

"And to think I just thought it was a yo-yo thingy," Peter mused.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"That's good news," Peter was saying as Neal entered the living room.

After breakfast, medications, and then a hot shower, Neal's energy level had begun to sag. By early afternoon, having nodded off for the second time in Peter's recliner, Neal had heeded his host's advice and taken a nap. Having awakened a bit over an hour later, Neal had returned to find Peter on the phone.

"I know, me too." Peter paused, meeting Neal's eyes. "He's good." Apparently he was the topic of discussion. "Wants to go back to his apartment but I told him to give it a couple days and see how he feels." Another pause. "I won't, sir." A firm promise, followed by a stern look at him; _Sir_ meant Agent Hughes. "Yeah, Monday."

"Anything you care to share?" Neal asked when Peter had ended the call. Peter had shared several things he technically shouldn't have, but Neal didn't want to assume that trend would continue. Sooner or later, they'd have to go back to the real world where rules applied. It was all a part of the normalcy Neal desperately wanted back.

"Agent Hughes just talked with his counterpart over at the Chicago Violent Crimes Division," Peter informed him, placing his phone on the table. "They've elected not to pursue additional charges against Eden."

"I thought that had already been decided," Neal answered. He wondered if Peter had talked to Agent Parker; if he knew he'd been less than truthful during the interview.

"It had been," Peter replied, "but after Agent Parker met with to you he wanted-" He stopped, then shrugged off the rest of the sentence dismissively. "Doesn't matter now. Agent Hughes got the word straight from Parker's superior. He agrees there is no point wasting resources prosecuting a long shot when the current case against Eden is more than sufficient to send him away for the rest of his life."

 _After he met with you he wanted to keep the case open_ ; that was what Peter had been going to say.

Neal wasn't surprised. He'd managed the interview and Agent Parker quite well right up until the moment the agent held up the photo of Douchant. He hadn't been prepared for it. He'd not seen that face in years, except in his nightmares. He must have blacked out because the next thing he remembered was Agent Parker and Detective Strand both on their feet, staring at him in alarm. He didn't know how much time had passed, or what he'd done or said but moments later, shaking uncontrollably, he'd emptied the contents of his stomach into the wastebasket.

He'd tried to downplay his reaction, to say it was just the medication, but he knew they knew better. He hadn't said whether he knew Douchant or not, but his actions had answered for him. Agent Parker had been looking for a way to connect Eden to Douchant and Neal had inadvertently given him one; _him._

That was why Agent Parker hadn't wanted to close the case; he thought he'd finally found some traction. But Hughes had talked to his superior and, the way Peter had worded it, it sounded like he'd convinced him to stop the wheels from moving. Neal was grateful. The case with Littleton, it was all about now; the other one was all about the past, and that wasn't somewhere Neal wanted to go.

"Sounds reasonable," Neal remarked, turning from Peter and moving across the room; he needed a moment. He passed the recliner, stepped around the coffee table and lowered himself onto the sofa. "Will the case be tried here?" he asked. "In New York?"

"Should be." Peter had followed him and like Neal took a seat in the same place he had the night before. "It's where he was arrested, where his most serious crimes were committed. Aggravated kidnapping, assault, attempted _murder_." Neal knew there was a whole laundry list of others, but those were the big ones. _"_ But Cyber Crimes could request it be moved to Chicago," Peter admitted. "That's where his operations are centered and where the investigation originated. We'll just have to see what they decide to do."

Neal had feared the trial would be in Chicago, that he'd have to testify there and he wasn't sure he could do that. He could face Eden here in New York. It wouldn't be easy, but he could do it. Here he was Neal Caffrey. But in Chicago, he was someone else. Someone weak and scared; someone who had cowered and begged for mercy in a room full of witnesses. Just the thought of returning there made his chest tighten and his heart race; made him feel like Danny.

"I don't want to go back there, Peter." He even s _ounded_ like Danny.

Was this what the next year was going to be like? The next _two_? A constant battle to hold himself together? A continual struggle to stay who he was and not become who he used to be? Thinking about the past, being questioned about it, dealing with Eden; it was like being exposed to an acid that ate away at who he wanted to be and left only who he didn't.

"I know you don't," Peter acknowledged, "but remember Neal," his voice was firm, "that place, that _man,_ " he shook his head but held Neal's gaze, "they have no power over you. There's nothing back there that can hurt you; nothing you have to run from anymore."

 _Nothing to run from?_ The statement echoed in his ears. Even as a child he'd been running though he didn't know it at the time. He and his mother moved from place to place, never settling, never fitting in; nothing good ever lasted. Later he'd learned about witsec and was told his father had died a hero. He'd found strength in that, a foundation to build on but then he'd learned it was all a lie. He'd run then and he'd been running ever since.

Anytime he felt he could stop, that he'd found somewhere to belong, he'd been wrong. Anytime he'd thought he'd found someone who cared, someone he could trust, _he had been wrong._

Until now; until Peter.

"You okay?" Peter asked, frowning.

"Yeah," Neal answered. "Just thinking, that's all." It was a lot to take in, a lot to process.

"I can talk to Agent Littleton," Peter offered, still concerned. "If he knows how you feel, there's a good chance he won't make that request." He met Neal's eyes. "Want me to call him?"

If he ever was going to stop running, it had to start somewhere. He didn't want to go to Chicago but maybe he needed to. Maybe he needed to face Eden there, testify against him, and send him to prison. He could finish what he'd started years ago; make peace with it and with himself.

"No," he answered with certainty. "Don't call him. If that's where he wants the trial then so be it. It might be hard, but maybe it's better that way, better if I end it where it began."

"You won't be alone, Neal." There wasn't pity in Peter's eyes; there was pride.

 _"I know."_


	70. Chapter 70

**Chapter Seventy**

"You're in early."

Peter was in early but not as early as Agent Hughes. At seven twenty the man looked like he'd been at is awhile; there was a stack of paperwork and an almost empty cup of coffee on his desk. Peter knew the events of the past week had been hard on the whole department. His actions had put several in the hot seat, and his absence had increased their workload. This was especially true in the case of Agent Hughes. His Section Chief had spent a considerable amount of time taking calls, filing reports and attending meetings in defense of his agent. Hughes hadn't only been a good boss he'd been a good friend; not only to him but to Neal as well.

"Got a lot to catch up on, sir," Peter replied. "I thought I'd get an early start." He stepped inside the door. "Anything new with the Eden case?" he asked a bit tentatively. "Any word from Agent Littleton?"

Eden and Maxwell had been arraigned and remanded to custody a week ago and as far as he knew the third kidnapper, the one who'd called the tip line, was still at large and unidentified. The last thing he'd heard from Agent Littleton was that neither Eden or Maxwell were talking. But that had been days ago. Things could have changed since then. They would have seen council by now, started developing their defense strategies. McAllister had been bargaining before the cuffs were on his wrist; maybe Maxwell would take a similar route. But other than the news Hughes had shared about the Violent Crimes case, Peter had been told nothing.

The look Agent Hughes leveled at him made him suspect it was not entirely accidental. Of course, until Friday, when Neal seemed to be doing better, he'd given little thought to the case. He'd touched base, asked general questions out of obligation, but his heart hadn't been in it. He'd had other concerns, other priorities, that he deemed more important. But now he was back at the office and it was time to get back to doing his job.

"How's Caffrey?" Hughes' answering his question with one of his own gave credence to Peter's suspicion and provided a possible reason he had not been kept apprised of day to day developments.

"Better sir, and back in his apartment." Maybe knowing a victim of the crime, and key witness, was no longer sleeping in his guest room would unclog the flow of information. "I took him over yesterday afternoon."

Hughes frowned at his announcement. "I thought you said you wouldn't let him talk you into going home before the doctor released him."

Hughes' actual words at the time had been not to let Neal _con_ him, and Peter hadn't.

"I said I wouldn't let him talk me into going home before he was ready," Peter corrected. "And I didn't. He's doing much better sir," he explained. "He basically ate and slept the first two days and by yesterday, he'd finally gotten some of his strength back. He made it all the way up the stairs to his apartment on his own."

That had not been a given. Neal was stronger than he had been, but he had little stamina; his energy was quickly depleted by the least amount of activity. Strength had carried him to the first landing, but the rest had been accomplished by sheer determination. He'd been so exhausted by the time he made it in his door, pale and wet with sweat, that he'd practically fallen into the first chair he encountered. Neal had insisted he was fine, but both Peter and June had paid particular attention to his breathing over the next several minutes, making sure there was no congestion, wheezing or whistling sounds. Neal hadn't liked their hovering, but it hadn't stopped them.

"You sure that's wise?" Hughes asked. "Leaving him on his own like that?"

"He's wearing the anklet, sir," Peter told him. He had called Agent Donaldson and had it reset back to its original two-mile radius.

"That's not what I meant, Peter," Agent Hughes said a bit irritably.

"He's not on his own," Peter assured him. "Ms. Ellington, his landlady, is very fond of him. She knows about his injuries and what to look out for. She'll keep a close eye on him. If he has any problems or needs anything, trust me; she'll let me know."

Neal's appearance had improved greatly but there were still remnants of bruising on his cheekbone and, in spite of Elizabeth's efforts, he was alarmingly thin. Peter hadn't been awakened in the night, and Neal had said nothing about nightmares but the dark circles under his eyes made Peter believe they persisted. Surely having people who cared and being in his apartment instead of a prison cell would make the nightmare stop sooner than it had the last time. Maybe once the trial was over, and Eden was behind bars, the nightmare would stop altogether.

At the sight of Neal June's protective nature had kicked in, her outpouring of concern causing color to tint Neal's otherwise pale face. Even though it had been the NYPD who had searched Neal's apartment, June had still sent daggers of disapproval in his direction when she'd told Neal about it. If Elizabeth was a mother hen, June was more like a lioness guarding her young. Peter did not doubt that Neal was in good hands.

"It's not just his physical state I'm worried about," Agent Hughes clarified. "I'm concerned about his state of mind; Agent Parker told me about his reaction to the photo of Douchant." His frown deepened, telling Peter he'd also been told the agent's theory of what had caused such a strong reaction. "I watched Caffrey's interview with Agent Littleton; he was already shaken up before he talked to Agent Parker." He searched Peter's eyes. "Do you think he's going to be able to handle this?"

It was a question Peter had been asking himself ever since he'd learned about Chicago, and the more he'd learned about Neal's past, the more he'd worried. But he felt like Neal had turned a corner, that he understood this was the way to beat Eden once and for all and to truly put his past behind him.

"I think it'll be hard," Peter admitted, "and it's going to bring up a lot of stuff he'd rather forget but yeah," he said firmly. "I think he can handle it."

Agent Hughes didn't look completely convinced, but after a moment, he seemed to accept his answer.

"Good," he said, picking up his pen indicating he was ready to get back to whatever Peter's arrival had interrupted. "Because making sure he does will fall to you." Peter had known that from the start. "There are some reports on your desk I need back to me by the end of the day," he continued. "There are also requests from the Federal Prosecutor's Office about both the Baxter and the Francia Case. And DC Art Crimes wants a consult on a series of forgeries in Brentwood they're investigating."

"A consult with me or with Neal?" The question was rhetorical; he knew the answer. Neal's reputation often preceded him in both the criminal and the anti-criminal world.

Agent Hughes chuckled. "They called you, but I'm sure they expect it to be a package deal," he admitted. "Let's face it; when you're looking for an expert on forgeries, you can't get much better than Neal Caffrey."

Neal would be grinning ear to ear if he'd heard Hughes say such a thing. Of course, had Neal been there Hughes wouldn't have said it.

"Might be just what he needs," Peter ventured. Not just the ego boost of being requested by Art Crimes but the distraction. "He can't go anywhere for awhile, but he could look over the file. See what he could turn up."

Peter had lost count of how many cases Neal had solved simply by reading over case files. He could find details, make connections, that other missed. A forgery case, especially dealing with art, would be right up his alley.

"Well, he's your CI so you can use him as you choose." Peter had said the same many times, even to Neal, but hearing it now left a bad taste in his mouth. "There are also several open White Collar cases that need to be reviewed," Hughes continued. "Hand him a few of those to look over if he needs something to do."

"I will, sir," Peter replied, stepping into the hallway. "He says he wants things to get back to normal." He paused, looking back at Hughes. "Are there any mortgage fraud cases in there?"

Mortgage Fraud cases were always plentiful at White Collar. Neal hated them and because of his often overly dramatic reaction when he was handed one everyone knew it. Even Agent Hughes. The corners of the older man's lips, if not turned up, at least straightened into a thin line of amusement.

"And a couple copyright infringements, too."

Second only to mortgage fraud on Neal's hate list. Peter grinned.

"Perfect."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Agent Hughes hadn't overstated the amount of work waiting for him on his desk. The surface had been clean when he'd left on Friday, had accumulated a few additions by the times he'd been here on Tuesday, and now was nearly mounded over. He knew Hughes and the rest of the team had handled all critical or time-sensitive issues that had sprung up during his absence, but there was still plenty left for him to attend to.

In addition to the pile of work in front of him, he was also behind on his usual daily tasks. He needed to check the progress of ongoing investigations and, as Hughes had mentioned, review and priorities new cases to be assigned. The workload at White Collar was always heavy, but it was particularly so this time of year. FBI offices were only closed Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's Day but most agents kept back a week or so of vacation to use during the holidays as well. The office would be short staffed from next week clear through the first week of the year, and unfortunately, criminals didn't observe Federal holidays or take vacation days.

He couldn't believe Thanksgiving was less than two weeks away; with everything that had happened, it had completely slipped his mind. He hadn't thought the first thing about it until this morning when Elizabeth asked him to see if Neal wanted to join them for Thanksgiving Dinner.

Not only Neal but June and Mozzie as well. Peter had started to protest, but she had stopped him.

"I think it would be good for Neal to spend the day with the people who care about him," she'd said. "Especially after what he's been through. Things could have gone much differently," she reminded him. "We all have a lot to be thankful for."

He couldn't argue with that; they easily could be facing the holidays without Neal. "I'll stop by after work and ask him."

She'd kissed him on the cheek. "Mozzie and June, too, Peter."

"Yes, ma'am. Mozzie and June, too."

If he wanted to enjoy the Burke Festivities, he had a lot of work to do. He'd started the ancient coffee machine when he came in-Hughes had his own in his office-and it took a good fifteen minutes to brew the twelve cup pot; he still had about seven minutes left. The first thing he needed to do was sort and prioritize his tasks. Then he'd go downstairs, get a cup of coffee, return, and start working his way through them. The reports Hughes needed, of course, would take precedence.

About five minutes into his sorting, he found the copy of Agent Parker's notes. It was near the bottom; a lot had happened since it had been placed there. Not only here at the office but in other places as well. Peter had scanned them when Parker had come by after the interview, but he hadn't read them in detail. Now he took the time to do so.

Neal had misled Agent Parker about the identity of the forger, but Peter knew he would have stayed as close to the truth as he could. It not only would lend credibility to his account but it was also simpler to remember the truth as opposed to a lie. It was with this in mind Peter read the page and a half of small, concisely printed notes.

There wasn't much new information; everything Neal described, from the way he'd fallen in with Eden to the jobs he'd done for him, fit into what Peter already knew or suspected. In exchange for food and lodging, Neal had used his nimble fingers to supply Eden with credit cards and ids. It was when he'd dropped off his haul that he'd, supposedly, become acquainted with Eden's forger. Peter smiled at the term _document modification;_ Agent Parker had put it in quotes. He flipped over to the second page.

 _Mr. Eden nearly beat me to death...In bed three days before I could get up._

Again Agent Parker had used quotations, but this time Peter's didn't smile; he clenched his jaw in anger instead.

 _Looking for a way out_ , the notes continued. _Got a new identity. Cash. No name for the forger;_ that was underlined. _Says he doesn't know where he went. Seems agitated by the questions._

The notes finished up with a list of three names; Peter only recognized the last one. Francis Douchant. There were brief notations beside each one, except, of course, the last one.

Peter didn't need notes; he knew what had happened.

He placed the notes inside the file Agent Littleton had sent him via the Suffern Officer and put it aside.

Nowhere during the conversation had Agent Parker asked Neal why he'd been on the streets in the first place, how old he'd been, what his name was or where he was from. A good investigator would have asked those questions as a follow-up, but Parker hadn't bothered. That was the danger of going in with one specific goal; tunnel vision. A good investigator knew not to zero in on one aspect so tightly he couldn't see the broader picture.

Not that it would have mattered in this particular case with this particular witness. Neal wouldn't have told the man those details anyway. So far, Neal hadn't told _him_ those specific details, either.

Except for his age; he had confided that. It was a start. And that, too, was something to be thankful for.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Two cups of coffee and three reports later, Peter got his wish; an update from none other than Agent Littleton. Speaking via telephone, the agent began with the customary questions about Neal before moving on to discuss the case.

There was nothing out of the ordinary; Eden and Maxwell had, as expected, entered pleas of Not Guilty and asked for time to retain counsel. Once that had been done, each respective attorney had made the usual request for Discovery. The preliminary evidence used to substantiate the charges was staggering, and the prosecution had readily provided it. Better than ninety percent of federal cases were settled before trial and open file discovery, giving the defense access to the evidence in the case as it was gathered, was the most significant reason.

Once defendants were made aware of the strength of the cases against them and as that evidence mounted, they often agreed to change their plea to guilty in consideration for lesser charges or at least leniency in sentencing. Though some in law enforcement viewed this practice as sneaky arrangements that subverted justice, the federal government did not hold that opinion. They had written rules to explicitly set out how plea bargains could be arranged and accepted by the court. Prosecutors were glad to settle cases this way whenever possible; it not only guaranteed them a conviction but also decluttered an already saturated court system and saved the time and resources necessary to take a case to trial.

Evan McAllister had already taken advantage of this practice. He had agreed to provide information and testify in return for lesser charges and a promise he'd serve his sentence in a minimum security facility. Maxwell had less to bargain with. If he pled guilty and agreed to testify against Eden, he might get non-consecutive sentences and the possibility of parole after twenty-five years. All Eden could do was avoid a trial and maybe pick what federal prison he wanted to serve the next forty years in. At present, no offers had been requested or extended, but it was still early.

"But we have identified the second kidnapper," Agent Littleton informed him. "His name is Kenneth Mason, a former co-worker of Maxwell."

He _was_ the second kidnapper, but he was also the man who'd called the tip line, probably saving Neal's life.

"Is he willing to testify against the others?" If anyone deserved a plea bargain, it was him.

"He's not in custody," Agent Littleton replied. "He didn't show up to work Monday, and he's not at home. I spoke with his wife on Friday." There was a pause. "She's a patient at the Melbourne Cancer Clinic. Stage three lung cancer. Claims she hasn't spoken to him since Sunday."

"Damn," Peter breathed. "Let me guess; they're having financial difficulties."

"She said they'd sold their cars and borrowed all they could against the equity in their house. The doctors told them about a treatment that has had good results in trials, but it's experimental," he continued. "Their insurance wouldn't approve it."

The man had been desperate. Peter felt for him but he had kidnapped two people. "Any priors?"

"Not even a traffic violation," the agent told him. "She says he's a good man and she blames herself." Peter could tell the Agent felt for her; probably, like Peter, for both of them. "I told her if he contacted her to tell him to call me; that it would go easier if he turned himself in."

"You know there's a good chance he'll try to see her," Peter commented. "Especially with Thanksgiving coming up."

The man probably knew this was likely the last one he'd spend with her.

"We have a tap on her phone, NYPD has a plainclothes officer on the floor and surveillance on both entrances to the building," Littleton reported. "If he shows up there, we'll be ready. That's pretty much where things are for now," Peter could hear the sound of papers shuffling. He imagined Agent Littleton was multitasking. "I'll be back in New York on Thursday," he said. "I have some things to go over with the Federal Prosecutor."

"Does that mean the trial's going to be here in New York?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "The arrests were made there and our key witnesses are there. Seemed best for everyone." Peter was relieved. Neal might be willing to go to Chicago, but he was glad he wouldn't have to. "They've set a tentative trial date for late March." With three continuations, it might make it to trial mid-year. Not bad.

"Thanks for the update, Agent Littleton," he added. "I appreciate it."

"Not a problem," he answered. "After all, we have you and your team to thank for getting our man. If you hadn't made the connection between Eden and the diamond robbery, we'd still be in Chicago waiting for him to make a move."

"Well, we had help," Peter admitted truthfully. "Moz-" Peter stopped. "Mr. _Haversham_ ," he corrected, "put us on to Terrence Eden early on and then Neal's message verified his involvement. It was a group effort."

"Like I said Agent Burke," the agent reiterated. "Your _team_ ; Mr. Haversham included."

Mozzie _had_ been part of the team. He'd put aside his misgivings, his mistrust, and joined a Suit for a common purpose; to save a friend. Still, he knew Mozzie would cringe at the thought.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Peter chuckled. "He'd drop dead at the thought of being called part of my team."

Yet Peter had little doubt he'd accept a dinner invitation, especially if it came from Elizabeth. Mozzie was sometimes a walking contradiction.

"He's an odd one, that for sure," the agent laughed.

"Odd is one word for him."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter arrived at Riverside Drive with more than a dinner invitation. He had a new FBI Issue phone and a stack of case files as well. Two of the three represented a return to normal; one did not. Janet opened the door, but it was June who greeted him.

"You're just in time for some dinner." She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. "Janet was just getting ready to take a plate up to Neal. I'm sure he'd love for you to join him. Janet," she directed. "Fix Agent Burke a plate as well."

"No," Peter protested. "Thanks but I'm not staying." He moved towards the staircase. "I just wanted to check on Neal. I've got a new phone for him."

"Peter," her voice brought him to a stop halfway up to the first landing and he turned back to face her. "Thank you for bringing him home," she said. "Thank you for believing in him."

"You and Mozzie made a pretty compelling case," Peter said, hoping to diffuse what could easily turn into an emotional moment. He'd had enough of those lately.

"Yes we did," she agreed, "once you came _here_ ; but you believed in him before that, or you'd have called it in."

"I just wanted to make sure there wasn't some kind of technical malfunction, that's all."

"Well, say what you want," she smiled knowingly, "but I know the truth. And so does Neal. We talked last night, more than I think we ever have." She searched his eyes. "You mean a lot to him, Peter. I hope you know that."

He did know that, now more than ever. As curious as he was about what their conversation had entailed, he dared not ask. "Elizabeth wants you to join us for dinner on Thanksgiving," he announced instead. "Neal and Mozzie too. She thinks-"

"That we all have a lot to be thankful for?" she finished for him.

"Well, obviously that," he replied, "but that us all having dinner together would be good for Neal."

He wasn't sure how much she knew about Neal's past but she nodded in agreement. "I think its a wonderful idea," she stated, "and I'd be honored to come. Are you sure you don't want to join Neal for dinner?" she asked. "There's plenty."

"No, I can't stay," Peter replied, resuming his trek up the stairs. "Elizabeth is expecting me. But thanks anyway."

A moment later he knocked on Neal's door.

"June, I promise-" Neal had started his statement before he realized it wasn't June at his door. "Oh." He stopped short. "Peter."

"Yeah, _Peter_ ," he replied, stepping into the apartment. "So what promises are you making to June?"

"That I'm doing my breathing exercises," Neal replied, closing the door before turning back to Peter. "that I'm resting enough, eating enough, _warm enough_." The dark circles under his eyes seemed a lighter, but Peter couldn't tell if they were, or if there was finally some color starting to return to his face, lessening the contrast. "Just the usual, really. What's up?"

"I have a new phone for you," Peter replied, placing his briefcase on the table. "I didn't like leaving you here without one." He knew Neal wasn't without one, but Neal didn't know he knew. He opened the case, removed the phone and handed it to him. "I feel better knowing you can call if you need to."

Neal took the pro-offered phone sheepishly. "Actually, Peter," he began a bit reluctantly, "I _have_ a phone. Mozzie brought me one a couple of days ago." _A week ago._ "You know," he continued to explain, "in case of an emergency. But trust me," he added hastily holding up the phone Peter had just handed him. "This is much better. It's even better than the one I had before."

Neal could have just accepted the phone and left it at that, but he hadn't. He'd had a second phone for over a year, and he'd never felt compelled to tell Peter about it. But this time, after just a week, he had.

"Agent Hughes thought you'd earned an upgrade," Peter told him. "I put my number in it already," he said with a nod, "And right now, the only people who have your number is me, the Marshal's Service and Agent Littleton."

Neal looked up. "Agent Littleton?"

"Yeah," Peter replied. "He'll be back in New York at the end of the week and wants to see you," he explained. "I gave him your new number and told him to give you a call to set it up."

"Why?" Neal asked with a frown. "What does he want?"

Peter understood; he'd had the same reaction. "He said he doesn't want anything but to thank you for your help."

"Well, it wasn't like I had much of a choice," Neal remarked. "Anyway, he already thanked me," he gave a small shrug. "No more thanks are necessary."

"I guess he feels differently," Peter replied. "But you can tell him that when he calls. He also told me they'd decided to keep the trial here in New York, and they've already set a date."

"March twenty-seventh," Neal supplied, placing the phone on the table. "I got the letter today," he nodded in the direction of the kitchen counter. "Gave me the tentative schedule and the name and contact information for the Prosecutor assigned to the case. Said I'd be contacted when they needed me to come in and go over my testimony and to call if I had any questions. You talked to Agent Littleton," Neal continued. "Anything else you can tell me?"

Neal hadn't mentioned that the letter from the Prosecutor's Office had also contained a Victim's Bill of Rights and the number of the Victim Aid Assistance Unit, but Peter knew it had. It was mandatory in New York that crime victims be informed of their rights and made aware of the services available to them. One of those rights was to be informed about the criminal proceedings. Neal had a right to know certain things related to the case, but Peter had to exercise caution in what he chose to share. The information had to be within the same scope as that which the Prosecutor's Office would provide if asked.

With that in mind, he told Neal what he'd learned from Agent Littleton about the proceedings thus far, but when he got to the part about the second kidnapper having been identified, he hesitated. Neal wasn't only a victim in the case, he was also a witness, and the integrity of his testimony had to be kept intact. Neal was already sympathetic toward Mason and learning what had driven him to such drastic action would only magnify that. His empathy could change or influence what he said on the stand and because of that, Peter stuck with only the basic facts; the man had been identified, and a search for him was underway.

"Who is he?" Neal asked.

He wanted a name, but Peter couldn't provide that, not until an arrest had been made.

"A former co-worker of Maxwell's," Peter offered instead. "But that's all I can say right now."

Neal didn't press but instead nodded in understanding. Peter knew if he wanted the name he would get it; a quick look at a list all the APB's issued over the past week would be all it would take.

"He wasn't like the others," Neal remarked quietly. "He wasn't vicious or cruel. Why do they think he did it?" he asked, brows furrowing in question. "Money problems?"

"That is the typical motive in things like this," Peter replied, ready to move from the topic. He was aided when a knock sounded at the door.

"It's me, Mr. Caffrey," Janet called from the other side of the closed door. "I have your dinner."

Neal opened the door, and Janet entered, dinner tray in hand. It both looked and smelled delicious.

"Just sit it here," Neal directed, moving the phone out of the way. He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Smells wonderful, Janet. You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, placing the tray on the table. "Ms. Ellington said to let her know if you need anything."

"Tell her I will, Janet," Neal assured her. "And thanks for bringing my dinner up. Sorry to be extra work, but it will only be for a couple of days."

"Oh Mr. Caffrey," she replied. "I don't mind at all; I'm just glad your home. Don't worry about cleaning up," she added, moving towards the door. "Just leave everything on the tray. I'll be up about seven to collect it."

Neal thanked her again, and then closed the door behind her. "She and June are great," he said, "but I don't like having people fuss over me. I'll be glad when things get back to normal."

"They will soon enough," Peter assured him, surveying the dinner Janet had brought. "But I'd enjoy this while I could if I were you." He felt a pang of hunger, reminding him that his own dinner was waiting. "I need to get home," he said. "Elizabeth is waiting. Speaking of El, she wanted me to invite you, June and Mozzie to join us for Thanksgiving."

Neal seemed caught off guard by the invitation. "Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, Neal, _Thanksgiving_ ," Peter repeated. "You know, Turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, Pumpkin pie. Family, friends, football. Surely you've heard of it."

"I know what it is, Peter," Neal retorted. "I just forgot it was so close, that's all."

Peter could relate. "It's a week from Thursday," he informed. "June's already said she'd come and I expect you and Mozzie to be there too. Unless you have other plans."

Neal shook his head. "I don't have plans," he replied. "And I doubt Mozzie does either, but I'll ask him when I see him. Thanks for the invitation, Peter," he said with sincerity. "I've never actually been to a Thanksgiving Dinner before," he confessed. "Not a real one; the prison cafeteria doesn't count."

Given what he knew about Neal's past that wasn't a surprise but it was still incredibly sad. He'd grown up in a big family. Holidays were full of fun, food, and family. He couldn't imagine who he'd be if he hadn't had that kind of love and support in his life. Neal had had nothing like that; he'd been alone most of his life. When he'd tried to find somewhere to belong, someone to care, he'd found people like Terrence Eden.

But that wasn't the case anymore. Elizabeth was right; Neal needed to spend Thanksgiving with people who cared about him. He may have difficult times ahead but for the first time in his life, he knew he didn't have to face them alone.

"Well, after next week you can't say that," Peter told him. "We gather at five, eat at six. Watch football until midnight. It's a quintessential Thanksgiving Celebration. You'll love it."

"Football until _midnight_?" Neal's look was priceless. He wasn't exactly a gridiron man.

"Well, maybe until eleven-thirty," Peter conceded, reaching for his briefcase. He needed to get home. "I almost forgot," he said, removing a stack of files and placing them beside Neal's dinner tray. "I brought you something else, too."

Neal looked at him questioningly. "Are those case files?"

"Yeah," Peter replied. "I thought you could go over a few of them while you're recovering. See what you think."

"Did you give me anything good?" Neal asked.

"They are _crimes_ , Neal," he said, snapping the briefcase closed. "None of them are _good_."

"You know what I mean," he said, reaching over to pick up a few off the top. "Interesting. Exciting. _Not boring."_

"I don't know," Peter lied. "I guess you'll have to look through them and see."

There were several Neal would hate, but he'd planted a couple he knew he'd like. One of those was the file on the forgeries in DC they'd been asked to consult on; Neal would love it.

Neal flipped through the first file, then the second and then looked up at Peter in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?" he asked. "Did you _purposely_ pick ones you knew I'd hate?"

"Of course not," Peter denied. "Those are just the cases I found on my desk this morning. You said you wanted things to get back to normal. Well," he nodded at the files. "You know what _normal_ is at White Collar."

Neal sighed in resignation, dropping the files back onto the stack. "Morgage Fraud and Copyright infringement."

"Exactly," Peter grinned. "Welcome back to normal, Neal."


	71. Chapter 71

**Chapter Seventy-One**

"Are you sure it can't be traced?" Neal knew how irritating it was to have someone looking over your shoulder while you worked but he couldn't help himself. "I don't want-" The look Mozzie sent him stopped him mid-sentence. "Sorry."

No one was better at playing a shell game with funds than Mozzie, but Neal was still nervous. This wasn't their usual sell of goods and transfer of funds. There was a lot more at stake. Peter had put his career on the line for him, and he didn't want anything he did now to jeopardize him or his career.

"To date," Mozzie informed him as his fingers resumed flying across the keyboard. "I have _never_ been traced. And per your _paranoia_ ," Being called paranoid by Mozzie truly stung, "I've doubled my usual doubled security measures. _It. Will. Not. Be. Traced."_

"Sorry, Moz," he said. "I just don't want any of this coming back on Peter."

Again, the look Mozzie sent was scorching. "How about back on you?" he asked. "Or _me_? You know I liked this better when we were splitting it with the kid."

The _It_ was the three hundred and twenty thousand Mozzie had gotten for the diamond Neal had plucked from the red velvet cloth he'd taken from safe hidden behind the Boswaninan Painting in the Dadford Diamond Exchange Office. Initially, after giving Moz his standard fee, he'd planned to split the remainder with Andrew-it seemed only fair-but now he had other plans for it.

"Andrew is entitled to compensation," Neal told him. "It's number five on the Victims' Bill of Rights."

"Entitled is not the same as _guaranteed,_ " Mozzie huffed. "And giving this kind of money to your kidnapper is just plain crazy."

The man who'd kidnapped him was Kenneth Riley Mason, a resident of Brooklyn, who until now, had never had any run-ins with the law. Neal had learned this much before Peter called to tell him he'd been arrested. Neal hadn't been pleased to hear the news; he'd secretly hoped the man would get away but no one knew better than he how hard it was to outrun the FBI. Peter informed him that the NYPD needed him to make a positive identification and an hour and a half later, he was viewing a line up through the one-way glass. Ken looked tired and worse, despondent. Neal hated to but he did what he was asked and provided the necessary identification.

It was afterward while waiting for Peter to finish talking with the Seargent and take him home, that he'd heard two officers discussing Mason's arrest. He could tell the men sympathized with the suspect and it didn't take him long to understand why. Mason hadn't even tried to run away. His wife was seriously ill and having learned this the NYPD had staked out the hospital where she was a patient. When Mason had shown up to see her, they were waiting for him. It was sad, one of them said, that a law-abiding citizen had resorted to crime because his insurance was refusing to pay for his wife's treatments.

Neal had picked up early that Ken wasn't like Maxwell or Eden; he didn't enjoy violence or seem like a greedy man. Neal guessed he'd taken the job because he had to; for some reason, he was in desperate need of cash. The most common reason for such a move was that he was into a bookie for a substantial amount and payment was due. When faced with the type of ultimatum that often accompanied such debt collection, even a decent man could be driven to indecent acts. It was a matter of survival and Neal understood. But then he overheard the officers and realized Mason hadn't been trying to save his own life, he'd been trying to save his wife's.

He asked Peter if he'd known about Mason's situation and that the NYPD had staked out the hospital and he'd admitted that he had. The idea that the police had used the man's sick wife to trap him made Neal angry but he didn't say anything; he knew that was the way the police worked. Even Peter, on occasion, could justify using any means necessary to make an arrest. Sensing his disapproval, Peter had reminded him that regardless of Mason's reasons, he'd still committed very serious crimes and would have to pay for them. However, he added, with a good lawyer pointing out the extenuating circumstances and the fact that he'd provided the tip that lead to Eden's capture, the court might exercise some leniency. Instead of twenty years, he might get ten and, with good behavior, be out in five.

That wasn't a bad deal, but Mason didn't have the money for a good lawyer, and without treatment, his wife didn't have five years. Neal knew what he had to do; there really was no question. Except from Mozzie, of course, who'd had lots of them; _You want me to do what? Why_? and _Are you crazy?_

"I asked him to help me, and he did, Moz," Neal explained yet again. "If he hadn't made that call, I'd be dead right now. I think this is the least I can do for him."

"The _least_ you could do was cover his wife's treatment," Mozzie told him. "Which you have. Hiring a six-figure ambulance chaser to represent him is way above that."

"You sure he's good?" Neal asked, again looking over his friend's shoulder. He'd relied on Mozzie to find the right man for the job. Mason needed better than good; he needed a miracle worker.

"Trust me," Mozzie replied. "He's the best _our_ money can buy."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"All I know is that yesterday he had a public defender and today he went before the judge with an attorney who I'm told charges ten thousand just to take a case."

Agent Littleton was sitting across from Peter's desk, giving his update in person this time as opposed to by telephone. It was Friday afternoon, and he'd just come back from Kenneth Mason's first court appearance.

"How did he manage that?" Peter asked but feared he knew the answer already.

"I don't think he did," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "He was as surprised when the man showed up and announced he was representing him as we were." Agent Littleton didn't sound angry; he just sounded curious. "The lawyer claimed he'd been retained on his client's behalf by an anonymous third party."

Peter had a good idea who that anonymous third party had been. Neal.

Ever since he'd heard about the discrepancy between the number of diamonds that had allegedly been in the Danford safe and the number that had been recovered at the Hanger, Peter had had his suspicions that Neal was the one behind the missing diamond. It hadn't been on his person when he'd been taken to the hospital so he must have stashed it somewhere, either at the Danford building itself or in the warehouse. Later, Peter theorized, he'd told Mozzie where to find it. That would account for the _Mission Accomplished_ message he'd seen on Neal's phone. But apparently not only had Mozzie retrieved it, he'd also used his contacts to turn it into cash. It's estimated value according to the Danford Diamond Exchange was about four hundred thousand dollars; more than enough to hire a high priced attorney to represent Kenneth Mason.

"A very _generous_ third party," he remarked. Neal was probably the most generous criminal he'd ever met. "I guess it must be Mason's lucky day."

"Oh that's just the beginning," the Agent replied. "You know the treatment his wife needs? The one insurance won't pay for? I found out on my way over here that it's been paid for as well."

Any doubt Peter had had about who Mason's mysterious benefactor was faded completely.

"Let me guess," he stated. "By an _anonymous t_ hird party."

The agent nodded. "And just like the with legal fees, everything was done by wire transfer this morning. Seems there's someone looking out for him; _and_ his wife."

Peter didn't like the inquisitive look in the agent's eyes. Littleton was a smart man and he'd met Neal Caffrey; that could add up to trouble.

"Any idea who?" Peter asked as innocently as he could manage. "Or why?"

"Not yet," Agent Littleton replied, holding his gaze steadily. "But the prosecutor thinks it's related to the missing diamond; that Mason gave it to someone who was able to use it to generate some cash."

"Not a bad theory," Peter noted, "but hard to substantiate. Are you tracing the funds?"

Agent Littleton told him there was an effort underway. The prosecutor had asked the attorney for access to his accounts to backtrace the transfer, but of course, the attorney had denied his request. That wasn't surprising; no attorney would willingly allow a federal prosecutor access to his finances, and if the man was as good as his fees suggested, there was little use trying to force the issue. But Agent Littleton expected the hospital would be more cooperative. It was possible, using their accounts, they'd be able to trace the money back to its source.

Not if Mozzie had handled the transfers, Peter thought to himself. After all, he took security seriously.

Not wanting to spend any more time on the subject of missing diamonds and wire transfers, Peter asked about the hearing. Littleton told him Mason had plead not guilty and, like the others had been remanded to custody. That, however, could change. His attorney had asked the judge to impose house arrest with an electronic ankle monitor in lieu of incarceration. The judge had agreed to consider the request and was to make a decision before the end of the day.

"I'm surprised he's even considering it," Peter remarked. Pre-trial house arrest was usually only an option for non-violent offenders. "Mason is charged with two counts of felony _kidnapping_."

"I know," Agent Littleton agreed. "But his lawyer pointed out that he has no criminal record, his wife is undergoing cancer treatment, and he is her only support. I think there's a good chance the judge will grant his request."

A public defender wouldn't get that ruling because a public defender would never have asked for it.

"Well, next week _is_ Thanksgiving," Peter noted with a shrug. "It wouldn't bother me if Mason got to spend it with his wife."

"How about Caffrey?" The agent asked, searching his eyes thoughtfully. "Think he'll have a problem with it?"

It had definitely occurred to the agent Neal might be the one behind Mason's sudden shift in circumstances. Again, a good theory but hard to substantiate.

"I doubt it," Peter replied with feigned nonchalance. "The man did help save his life, but you can ask him. You still plan to see him before you head back?"

"Yeah," the agent confirmed, getting to his feet. "I talked to him this morning. I'm stopping by his apartment on my way to the airport." Neal had better be careful, Peter thought. Agent Littleton didn't miss much. "My flight leaves at 6:14 so I better get moving." The agent extended his hand. "Happy Thanksgiving, Agent Burke," he said. "And give my regards Mrs. Burke."

"Thank you and I will," Peter said, giving the hand a firm shake. "When will you be back in New York?"

"Not until the trial," Littleton answered, releasing his grip. "Agent Abernathy will be handling things here; I have work to do in Chicago."

"I understand," Peter replied. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Agent Littleton; you've given me a whole new respect for CyberCrimes."

The agent slung his backpack over his shoulder. "That's what I like to hear, Agent Burke."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal wasn't sure if it was fear or excitement causing the tremor in his hands as he knotted the thin black tie. Until now, he'd only felt this level of anticipation mixed with dread before a particularly difficult job; one in which there was at least as much chance of failure as success. He glanced at his watch; the taxi would be arriving in fifteen minutes.

He'd chosen to wear the Devore, his favorite suit, in hopes of feeling more prepared to face whatever lay ahead. Looking in the mirror, he made a final adjustment to his tie, then placed his hat on his head. It wasn't his favorite hat-that one hadn't been returned to him-but it was his second favorite and completed the outfit nicely. He stepped back and surveyed his reflection in the mirror.

His face was back to its pristine appearance; the bruises were gone, the dark circles under his eyes had faded, and his skin had regained a healthy tone. He looked like Neal Caffrey again; well groomed, impeccably dressed, confident and perfectly composed.

But his composure was only skin deep; on the inside, it was a different story. He didn't understand why he was so nervous. It wasn't like he was breaking into the Louvre or scaling the walls of a Moroccan Villa on a damp night.

He was going to dinner at the Burke's.

"It's just dinner," he told his reflection. "It's no big deal."

But it wasn't just dinner, it was Thanksgiving Dinner, and it _was_ a big deal.

Being a part of a family, feeling a sense of welcome and belonging was something he'd longed for all his life. Growing up, it had just been he and his mother. She hadn't been interested in family events or traditions. Looking back, it made more sense now than it had then. She always told him she was picking up extra shifts during the holidays but he wasn't sure that was the case. Whether she was at work or somewhere else, the result was the same. More often than not he spent the days alone, eating whatever he could find and watching movies on the small television that depicted families coming together for the holidays. Occasionally, especially when they were living in an apartment, he'd find himself at a neighbors table for dinner. But no matter how hard they tried to make him feel welcome, he never did. He saw the knowing glances that passed between the adults, knew he'd been asked in out of pity. He'd learned that feeling alone surrounded by people was far worse than just being alone. At the end of those meals, even though his stomach was full, his life and his heart had felt emptier than ever.

Maybe that was why he was so out of sorts; this was uncharted territory. He'd never been part of a real Thanksgiving Dinner before. Just being included in the Burke breakfast routine had almost overwhelmed him; how was he supposed to keep himself together in the face of something of this magnitude?

"Neal," June called from the bottom of the staircase. "Are you ready, dear? Our taxi is here."

Ready or not, the time had come. He took a deep breath. _I can do this._

"I'll be right down," he responded. He exited the bedroom, took his overcoat from the hook by the door and slipped it on. He picked up the gifts he'd purchased for the host and hostess from his dining table; a six-pack of Peter's favorite beer for the game and a small, fresh herbal bouquet for Elizabeth.

June was bringing a dessert; Mozzie was supplying the wine.

It was Thanksgiving, and he'd be spending it with people he cared about and that he knew cared about him; Peter, Elizabeth, June, and Mozzie. After all this time, he'd found a family. A place he belonged.

He had a lot to be thankful for, and it was the perfect day to realize it.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Everything had been going well. Dinner, of course, was excellent and was winding down. Main dishes completed, El had brought out an assortment of desserts, Mozzie had opened a bottle of French Dessert Wine, went on like the Wine Spectator about its virtues, and poured them each a generous glass. The conversation was flowing as freely as the wine and everyone, even Mozzie, seemed to generally be enjoying themselves. Then suddenly Neal rose from the table.

"Excuse me." His face was flushed. "I need to get some air." Less than three seconds later he was out the back door. It happened so quickly, so without warning, that no one had a chance to respond. Mozzie was the first to speak.

"I'm sure he's fine," he said, looking from June to Elizabeth; one worried face to another. "All this domiciliary discussion probably make him claustrophobic."

"Peter-" Elizabeth started to speak just as he scooted back his chair.

"I'm on it," he said, getting up from the table.

Instead of following Neal out the kitchen door, Peter went into the living room. The temperature had barely reached fifty and by now would have fallen several degrees. Neal's thin shirt and jacket would be little protection against the cold. He took his coat off the rack by the door and put it on, then grabbed Neal's overcoat.

"Don't worry," he said as he passed through the dining room. "Finish your pie. We won't be long."

He was glad he'd put on his coat and that he'd brought Neal one; the breeze stirring the fallen leaves on the patio made the night air even colder. Neal hadn't gone far. He was leaning on the low wall that separated the patio from the backyard, his back to the house. Peter knew he heard the door close but he didn't turn to see who'd followed him. He just stood still, gazing into the darkness. He had to be cold but for whatever reason, he'd chosen to be out here instead of inside. Peter hesitated only a moment before walking over to join him in his vigil by the wall.

"You alright?" When he didn't answer, Peter's concern grew. "Neal?"

Neal seemed startled by his appearance; maybe he _hadn't_ heard the door. He'd been lost in thought. Whatever had driven him from the warmth of the house had completely occupied his thoughts. Hearing Peter's voice, he'd quickly wiped his cheeks, indicating to Peter that he was definitely not alright.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked anyway.

"Yeah," Neal answered, again turning his eyes in the direction of Peter's less-than-tidy backyard. "I just needed to clear my head, that's all."

"Well, you got out of there pretty fast," Peter remarked, handing Neal his coat. "So I told the ladies I'd come out and make sure you were alright."

He expected an _I'm fine_ or some similar proclamation, but it didn't come. Instead, Neal took the coat and offered a quiet word of gratitude. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter took the absence of Neal's stock response as a go-ahead to make further inquiries.

"So what's up?" he asked as Neal slipped into his coat. "Why the sudden need to clear your head?"

Neal didn't immediately answer his question. "I don't know," he said, pulling the coat tightly around his thin frame. "I was sitting there, listening to you and June talk football and Mozzie explaining to Elizabeth the difference between Sauternes with a capital _S_ and sauterne with a small s and I just..."

He stopped; now that he was facing the house, the warm glow of the windows illuminated the thoughtful look on his face.

"You just what?" Peter prompted.

"I just realized how perfect the moment was," he admitted quietly, meeting Peter's eyes. "Actually, how perfect the whole _day_ had been. I guess it kind of freaked me out."

Peter interpreted _freaked me out_ to mean _overwhelmed me with emotion_ ; Neal had rushed out into thirty-degree temperatures because he'd been about to cry. He'd needed a moment to pull himself together, or, as he had put it, to clear his head.

"I think what you were feeling is gratitude," Peter ventured. "That's what Thanksgiving is all about, Neal. Being thankful for our friends, our family, and all the perfect, and even the not-so-perfect, moments we share."

Neal nodded. "It's just that I've never had a day like this before, Peter. But I've always wanted one."

Again, the memories of the holidays he's spent with his family came to Peter's mind, and again, he realized how lucky he'd been.

"So you've really never had a family Thanksgiving," he asked, searching Neal's eyes in the dim light. "Even as a kid?"

Neal looked away at the question, and Peter realized he'd been out of bounds; he was about to apologize when Neal spoke.

"It was just me and my mom." Peter, surprised that Neal had chosen to answer, waited for more. "We moved around a lot," he continued, meeting Peter's eyes briefly, "so we never knew many people." His eyes had settled on the house, where the muffled sound of conversation could still be heard. "She always worked the Holidays, at least she said she did, and I stayed home by myself."

Peter had wanted more pieces to the puzzle, more insight into who Neal, or rather Danny, had been and now he had them. It was just a brief glimpse into his childhood but it gave a wealth of information. There had been no father in the picture, just as Elizabeth had surmised, nor any siblings or extended family. Had there been a family dispute? An abusive boyfriend or husband to run from? Had his mother struggled with drugs or alcohol? For whatever reason, she and her son had lived a transient life, which, for Neal, meant frequently changing homes, neighborhoods, and schools. He'd never known consistency or even security and he hadn't seemed to be a priority to his mother. From the sound of it, Neal had pretty much been left to his own devices even as a child.

Peter was glad to know more about Neal's past, but he was more pleased that Neal had chosen to share it. Elizabeth had told him all he had to do was be available, and, in time, Neal would open up. Of course, as usual, she was right.

"Well, that's not going to be the case anymore," Peter said, putting his arm around the young man's shoulders. "From now on, you have a standing invitation to all Burke Family holidays. Easter, the Fourth of July cookout, bring more of that beer," he added with a grin, "Thanksgiving Dinner and Christmas. It's time you start some traditions of your own."

"I don't know much about traditions," Neal admitted. "Just what I've seen in the movies."

"Don't worry about it, Neal," Peter said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "El and I will make you an expert."

 ** _The End_**

 _I couldn't quite get it wrapped up by Thanksgiving Day, but it was close. Originally, this story (all twelve chapters) was supposed to wrap up on Thanksgiving of 2016, but as you know, things didn't go according to my outline. I could literally write this story for the rest of my life, exploring the details of Neal's childhood and letting Peter learned to be patient, and Neal learn to trust, but it must end here, leaving each of you to finish it in your own way. Thank you to all who have faithfully followed this story for so long, posted reviews and sent encouraging messages to my inbox._ _I won't name names (two of you are just Guests), but there are nine of you who have been my inspiration and kept me chugging along when I truly felt like giving up._

 _Now, if you've read this story to its completion, please just leave a word and let me know. Happy Thanksgiving to you all._


End file.
